Divine Intervention
by SlashMyDreams
Summary: Jesus, seeing Peter's depression following Jason's suicide, decides to give them both a second chance. The catch, Jason won't remember anything after Ivy's party. Peter is about to be visited by the Virgin Mary bearing some very unpleasant news.
1. Chapter 1

He stood by Jason's grave and gazed at the indentations in the cold marble, spelling out 'Jason Owen McConnell' in grim, slanting letters like the deep slashes of a knife. The wind was blowing fiercely, but he barely felt it, staring down at the place where the boy he loved, the only person Peter had ever loved, lay. His heart had broken apart when Jason's had stopped. The worst thing was that he was reminded of his lover all the time; in the swelling of Ivy's belly, in the shadows playing across Nadia's profile, the guilt stretched across Matt and Lucas' faces like ill-fitting masks from Greek tragedies; in the haunted eyes of the parish priest. Jason's handwriting on Jason's books, the first version of Jason's speech lying on his desk. Jason's iPod under his bed, half-out of battery and never to be played again. Peter could still remember whole days spent lying together in semi-public parks near one of their houses, sharing earphones and listening to songs that only one of them liked. Jason's phone, which must by now be claiming hundreds of missed calls from Peter, because now it's the only way he'll ever hear Jason's voice again. Flipping his phone open, he presses one and the call button, staring at the display 'Calling… Jason' it reads, followed by a smiley face, put there by a boy not yet as jaded as Peter, not as hurt, not as broken, still hopelessly in hidden love. He can't quite remember being that boy. He listens to Jason's voice, so carefree And unknowing, until he hears the faint *beep* that shatters the illusion he'd foolishly let his mind form yet again; the one that brought him that faint glimmer of hope, that feeling of being home, because home was wherever Jason happened to be. They belonged together, like they had been so often.

Peter Simmons wondered whether there was anything left worth living for.

* * *

The guardian, who he assumed to be Saint Peter (and wasn't it ridiculous, that the bare mention of the name could still make him feel safe, yet worried about people finding out. Except that God must already know, and shit, he's going to be sent to hell;) led Jason into a grand, spacious throne-room. There were three gleaming gold thrones at the far end, and there appeared to be no floor, only reflections; which like the walls showed close-ups of various events. He could see a bunch of surfers packing up their equipment on the right, a busy street in London on the left. But it's the floor that's so surprising, because he looks down and for a minute all he can see is Peter, his Peter. He's dead and about to be judged by God himself for his sins, but nevertheless he can't suppress the little shiver of longing that runs through him, or the urge to just take Peter into his arms and brush the glistening tears away, even though he knows he'll never be able to again. The floor is like a collage of Peter, Peter on his knees before the priest Jason had confessed to, Peter by a grave that could only be his, Peter and Ivy, Peter talking to Jason's parents, Peter and Nadia, and yet the sight of them didn't hurt nearly as much as Peter, Peter, Peter.

There's a tall figure standing at the base of the thrones, a man he'd overlooked in his grief. Prompted by the guardian, he moves further forwards. It's the Holy Son, the Saviour, Lord Jesus Christ, he realises as his eyes take in the brown hair and beard, the ethereal glow pretty much surrounding the man. He has kind eyes, and his face is slightly lined, but they appear to be smile lines rather than ones etched with anger or frustration. He kneels at Jesus' feet, but the man, no, the God, reaches out a hand and draws him up; the movement fluid as if in water and for a second Jason thinks of how every moment with Peter felt like this; so right, no matter how very wrong it was.

"Jason McConnell," Jesus states, a slight hint of amusement in his voice. "Welcome"

He longs to ask to share the joke, like he would with anyone else, but reminds himself that this is God, and simply bows his head and says "Lord Jesus Christ."

"Despite your suicide, which is normally counted as a mortal sin, you have been given a second chance at happiness on Earth. Your soul will rejoin with your body and you'll wake up on the morning after Ivy Robinson's birthday party. You won't remember any of this."

"So how will I know not to do it again?" Jason asked, not understanding. If time was simply turned back, wouldn't exactly the same vents unfold unknowingly once again? Wouldn't they end up in exactly the same situation?

"My mother, Mary paid a visit to your Peter in his dream last time. She has agreed to change her message. Peter will be told of everything that transpired after that night. It'll be up to him then. Consider it a test of your love for each other." Jesus explained, surprisingly not sounding disgusted in the slightest.

"You mean… you don't consider our love an abomination?" Jason asked. Was it really okay? Although he'd always believed in the church's teachings, surely God himself would know even better.

Jesus shook his head. "You've been misinterpreting that for centuries. I never came across it in my own time, so I didn't correct it, but that passage was never intended to condemn homosexuality. Lying with a man you are not attracted to is indeed an abomination, just like it would be with a woman. If you're thinking about somebody else, it's an abomination"

"I slept with Ivy.." Jason trails off, remembering how Peter had been on his mind instead; how wrong it had felt with her. He was still an abomination, no matter what Jesus said.

"But you didn't." What? He'd gotten her pregnant, how could he have not slept with her? He remembered it, remembered lying to Peter, the guilt of it all. "Or rather, you won't this time round." Jesus added, clearly having noticed his puzzlement.

"Now come on, we have somewhere far more important to be." Jesus reached out for Jason, and the world seemed to spin. And suddenly, the throne-room was no longer there and he felt as if he was falling. Falling out of heaven, like a rogue angel, like someone who didn't deserve to be there, like an abomination.

* * *

The landing was a sudden drop, and Jason almost keeled over; certain that if he still had any breath in his lungs, it would've all been knocked out of them. Looking around, he realised with a jolt that he recognised his surroundings. It was the graveyard nearest to St Cecilia's, where the ex-ex-headmaster was buried. They were standing next to an unfamiliar grave, all black marble with an ivory cross. Someone had left two small bouquets of blue forget-me-nots, his favourite flowers, in vases positioned on either side of the grave. In the faint moonlight, Jason could just about squint at the inscription. 'Jason Owen McConnell' Holy Shit! This was his grave, it was his body lying there, rotting below cold soil underneath all that fancy marble, no doubt chosen by his father's secretary. Cheers, Dad. Then again, what a disappointment his once 'perfect' son must seem to be now.

"You'll feel a bit disorientated when you wake up, they all do; but you'll just put it down to a post-party hangover." Jesus advised him.

"They all do?" Jason questioned. "Does this happen often then?" How many people died and never knew it; how many had been resurrected after God himself, unknown and in secret? How many had seen the space-time continuum they had been taught about in physics class crumble into pieces around them, something the world's greatest scientists could only dream of?

But Jesus shook his head. "Very rare. We only do it in cases when there are terrible consequences because of a specific action, in this case your suicide."

"But I'm just one person," Jason replied. He hadn't exactly done much in his life, hadn't won a Nobel Prize, or been president or anything like a Mafia leader or something.

Jesus only shook his head again, knowing what would happen. The boy's sister, already on the plump side, would eat herself into death of obesity, his son would grow up abused and neglected in turn by a man who could not forget that his wife had chosen Jason first. And Peter, who had had such a golden future.. Oh, Peter was the worst.

"Terrible things would've happened. Your Peter…" He trails off, wondering what good telling the boy this would do. After all, he'd only forget it in a few moments. "Yours would not have been the only premature death," he says finally.

The boy stares up at him, flabbergasted. He reminds Jesus of his own disciples, so shocked to see him after his resurrection. "Peter wouldn't," he finally chokes out. Peter had always been so alive, the only real thing in a world full of pretences. To think of Peter gone…

Jesus does not reply. The problem is that Peter would.

"What do I do?" Jason asks, looking at the headstone which still proclaims his own death. Jesus thinks it must be terribly unnerving for him. At least they'd only buried him in a cave, at least he'd known beforehand. This poor boy hadn't had a clue.

"Just place your hands on the headstone," he instructs , waiting as the boy obeys. Then he closes his eyes. 'Father, please. We are ready' he thinks.

The headstone began to heat up under Jason's hands but he held on and simply counted silently, ghostly lips moving in an imitation of human life. One, two, three. And on four he was no longer there.

If anyone else had been present in that graveyard, they would've seen a boy disappear in a flash of golden light, followed by an older man. They would've sworn they saw that recently dug grave of that suicide boy simply melt into the night, and fresh grass regrow where it had been. But anyone present would have had to function outside the limits of time and space, a feat possible for no mortal alive. And the angels have their own work to do.

* * *

Five weeks ago, or somehow maybe right now, Peter Simmons strode into the room he shared with his best friend and secret boyfriend, Jason. Jason, who'd just utterly ignored him at a party where he could've blamed anything that happened on the combination of drugs and cheap alcohol. That night, he barely bothered to wash and only mumbled a quick prayer before slipping off his clothes and crawling into his bed and underneath the too warm covers, not knowing that his life was about to change.

Young Peter Simmons was about to receive a visitor bearing some very unpleasant news.


	2. Chapter 2

All was dark around Peter, the pitch black only intersected in places by clouds of rapidly rising smoke; smoke that rose in grim, swirling pillars that twisted through the air like a clawed hand reaching out for its next victim. The only light came from a couple of overhead torches, set out high above him in a lopsided circle, like a giant's squashed fiery crown. There was a regular dripping noise, followed by a series of loud thuds, and then silence for a few moments; broken abruptly by a loud exclamation of "Stop!", and an abrupt illumination of the entire surrounding space as if by some secret coded command. Looking around, Peter deduced that he had somehow ended up in a cave of some sort. It was damp, and miniscule droplets of water were dripping from the stalactites on the cavern ceiling. It was unfamiliar and he couldn't even remember how he had gotten there (hadn't someone in that film he'd seen at the cinema say that if you couldn't remember how you'd gotten somewhere, it was all a dream?) But there was no reason for him to be dreaming of a damp cave, nor of the black woman currently striding towards him.

"Fuck me, it's Diana Ross!" he exclaimed in shock, jerking back. To his immense surprise, his outburst was followed by several decidedly feminine giggles. And then they appeared, teenage girls half-hidden in shadow, dressed in pearly white, with gleaming gold, feathery wings behind them. The black woman simply ignored them, but they made Peter feel vaguely uncomfortable, like the feeling he got whenever the priest read Leviticus 18:22 aloud in church; oddly self-conscious and just the slightest bit ashamed. He should be attracted to those girls, the angels, like he knew normal people like Matt and Lucas would have been. But he felt nothing for them, except a vague irritation for their mocking laughter and false smiles.

"So no thanks, but now I know I got the right person," the woman smiled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he inquired warily. Who exactly was she and what could she possibly know about him? If she knew his likes and dislikes; and what he was likely to say, what secrets of his were safe from her? Could she possibly know about…?

"Listen up, Peter" Fuck, she sounded like his mom had that time he'd accidentally melted half of her finest leather handbag. "I may be a virgin," Okay, this was getting creepier with every word, "but I ain't new to the game. You'll be fine with Mary." A virgin. Called Mary.

"Holy shit!" He was talking to the Virgin Mary. He, Peter Simmons, was talking to the mother of Christ. And acting like a total imbecile. Jason would have been so much better at this.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she reprimanded him. Oh hell, he had just sworn at the mother of God. He was so going to hell for this. Well, among other, ever present reasons. In vain, Peter tired to redeem himself "Hail, oh Mary, Full of Grace..." he began, but was interrupted with a harsh glare and a sudden shout.

"Stop! Stop! Stop! Do you know how tired I am of that prayer? What'd you know, about two thousand years and they're saying that same prayer. I've a message for you, Peter. Now, listen closely, it may just save your lovelife," the Virgin Mary told him, sounding as if she genuinely wanted that for him. But didn't all queers go to hell, like they constantly told them in church? Wasn't he just a despicable abomination? He certainly felt that way whenever he wasn't with Jason, when the insecurities revealed themselves, whispering with lilting voices like Satan's in the desert. And yet somehow none of it ever seemed to matter when he was actually with Jason, especially when it was only the two of them alone. He tries not to think about him, because the very last thing he needed right now was to find himself sporting an awkward erection around the _Virgin Mary_, and the mere thought of Jason rarely failed to leave him half-hard and wanting.

"Wait; doesn't God consider us an abomination? Why would you want to help us do something against his will?"

"Oh, not this again! It's always the same; "The Bible calls it an abomination," she mocked, not unkindly. "My son explained this to your Jason," Jason had talked to God? When? And why had he kept it a secret from Peter, who he usually told practically everything, especially something so important, something that meant what they had together was fine, that there was nothing wrong with it? "But it's only an abomination if you're thinking about somebody else, whether male or female."

Peter's too much in shock, too surprised, to do anything but mutter dejectedly, "He's not _my _Jason," But Mary only winked at him, and for a moment he lets himself imagine actually having Jason properly, not just hiding away under the well-worn mask of 'best friends', kissing him openly in front of everyone. But the thoughts are like the cheap drugs Lucas supplies them with, and it feels like almost a sacrilege, wanting too much when he's already immensely lucky to have Jason at all.

"But he will be, if you just shut up and listen to what I'm about to tell you," the Virgin Mary told him, but despite her presence, Peter was irresistibly reminded of Lucifer tempting Christ in the desert, and knows that Jason is at once his greatest weakness and his strongest temptation. But before he could say anything, question any part of this bizarre situation, ask even a single question, she began talking again.

"No. Don't even go there, no, no. Come back." She ordered, sounding almost like a mis-matched, thinner version of Sister Chantelle, kind but strict. "Would I have those blasted angels with me, then?" she asked, gesturing towards the girls, still watching him as if he were putting on a performance strictly for their entertainment.

"Okay Peter, here's the deal. But first sit down, this'll all come as quite a shock." Peter obediently sits down, because you follow orders from God's representatives like you'd follow them from the priests or your parents. Once he's perched on a nearby rock, slightly uncomfortable, but impatient all the same, she resumes. And he's suddenly very, very glad she'd made him sit down, because the words sound like a mixed up jumble, an unknown foreign language, because it _can't _possibly be true.

But she's still talking, telling him more and more, and he doesn't know how long he can stand to bear it.

"Literally, Jason's life is at stake here. If you let events unfold the way they did the first time; Jason will commit suicide on the opening night; the only night of your play."

Peter ends up simply staring at her, shell-shocked. Jason. Kill himself. Finally, he jumps up, and disregarding the fact that this is the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ's own mother, he half-yells at her, "Jason wouldn't!"

When she replies, there's no reprimand, only cool, collected poise, like she got shouted at by gay Catholic schoolboys every single day; like it had been no surprise, nothing out of the ordinary.

"There's no question about it, Peter. Jason did." And he hates that those horrid words are spoken in such a soothing tone, altogether too kind for their monstrous meaning.

"But do not despair," Jason, dead. "Jesus has decided to give the two of you a second chance, hence my presence here. You can consider it a test of your love for each other. You'll do the right thing, I'm quite certain." she explained, then stood up, and brushing invisible specks of dust off her robes, called out "Come on, girls" then turned to Peter, almost apologetically. "God bless, and good luck. We gotta fly. It's all work, work, work; save, save, save. I'm the one who does all of it. Should've enjoyed myself on Earth while I still had the chance. Oh, but the three wise men didn't bring me nothing…" She had almost reached the other side of the cave now, where the majority of the girls were standing. "Come on then, this ain't some peep show. Come on, off with you."

"But wait!" Peter called out in desperation. She'd barely told him anything, so how would he know every hasty decision he made didn't just damn Jason even more? "How will I know what to do?"

"Baby, this ain't 'Conversations with Mary', it ain't that book. You'll know, well, if your love is true." She said ominously, and disappeared, just like the group of angels had done, in a flash of golden light, and Peter was left almost alone, standing in a now dimly lit cave with a single blonde angel, who hopped down from the rock she had been sitting on and commented idly," Sorry 'bout Madam Mary. She's a very busy woman, doesn't always quite have enough time to explain. But never mind, you'll figure it out." And she turned, as if to walk away, as if to disappear; and Peter realised that this may have been his final chance to do things right.

"Wait!" he shouts after her. "You say that, but you haven't actually told me anything of any use."

"You'll see," she says cryptically, and Peter thinks that those two words may have been the worst he's ever heard, perhaps even worse than the prospect of Jason dying, because there's so much future resignation, future heartbreaks, future failings in those two words alone that he just wants to scream; because if he _sees _then it'll already be too late, doesn't she see?

"No, not like that," she assures him, like she'd read his thoughts. Hell, she probably can read his thoughts, a decidedly unsettling thought. "Like, in a dream or vision or something. It's pretty hard to explain." She says, and it's almost apologetic, the way she shrugs her shoulders, but there's a hint of mischief in there too, like she doesn't actually want to explain, like this is all just a big game to her, when Jason's fucking life depends on this!

The angel must've sensed his growing irritation, because she elaborates. "Now, listen carefully. Things will have to get worse before they get better, but do not despair. If you can make this work, the two of you will have such a bright future ahead of you."

Peter frowned. "You're sure about this?" he inquires. 'Must get worse before it gets better'? But what happens if it gets so bad it'll be too late to do anything?

But the girl only sighs dreamily, "Jason McConnell-Simmons" she murmurs, and Peter has to bite his lower lip because God, really it's everything he's ever wanted, rolled together in two simple words. Having Jason fully, for real, neither of them afraid of other people's reactions. It's mind-boggling in a way, but it's also his most yearned for fantasy, that one day Jason could possibly be that much in love with him, although most of the time he can barely see how Jason could want him at all. Although, in the light of what he's just been told (and he still can't quite believe it,) he'd just settle for Jason being alive. After all, he'd rather not have Jason; even have to see Jason with somebody else, like Ivy or another one of his gushing fangirls, than for him to be dead. Cold and lifeless, buried so far below ground, so that Peter would never even be able to see him again, never again look into his eyes, or hear him laugh.

But while Peter was temporarily trapped in his own thoughts, the last remaining angel vanished, just like the others had done, leaving him with so many questions and no way to get any answers; just left to stand alone there, in the dark, with a final shout of "Don't tell him yet. He won't remember dying!"

* * *

He dreams of Jason breaking up with him, a frequent nightmare, but one that seems scarily realistic this time. He dreams of Ivy and Matt and Nadia; and Sister Chantelle singing about God in an empty room. He dreams of coming out to his mother while she's attempting to talk about other things; of starring in a macabre tableau of a confession, where Peter himself is crying, and he can actually see the priest, who actually looks ashamed of himself, and he feels as if he's trapped in an alternate reality, a whole different universe. He tries to call out, but in the dream he has no voice, and anyway, the scene soon changes, and he has Jason in his arms in front of everyone else. Only its not anything like the way he's dreamed, because Jason is gasping for every shallow breath he takes, and feels feverishly hot, and he grows limp in Peter's arms; his final words a barely audible "Love…you…"

He's seeing Jason's death, but he can't act, can only watch another version of himself fall apart; can hear Matt shouting "faggot" somewhere in the darkness but the images are swirling and blurring and twisting all around him, and there's nothing he can do to save Jason.

* * *

He wakes up drenched in cold sweat and panting; and for a single second, wonders whether it had all been just a dream. But deep down, he knows there's no way he could have possibly imagined something as terrible as that, that it couldn't have been just a horrific dream designed to torture him.

But Jason was not there.

How could Peter save him if there wasn't anyone there to save? How could Peter possibly save him if he wasn't even around, and his bed didn't look even slightly slept in?

He tries so hard to ignore the feeling of betrayal in his gut, or the faint glimmer of some incorporeal hybrid of dread and loss. He has to swallow them down, ignore them, because he hadn't lost Jason yet, and he wouldn't.

He couldn't.

"Jason McConnell-Simmons," he murmurs bitterly, but he can't quite restrain the slight note of hopeful wonder in his voice, even as he wonders if they're all just toying with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favourited or even just read. I hope you enjoy this.**

* * *

Jason awoke on a hard, unfamiliar surface, disorientated and uncomfortable. Looking around, he realised he wasn't in his room (_their room) _but in fact in the one his sister shared with Ivy. Of course, the stupid party. He probably shouldn't have just blown Peter off like that, but it wasn't like the rave and practically everyone had been there, and they can't come out to this school, nor to his parents. He knows that Peter wants to tell his own mother at least, but while he honestly hates seeing Peter upset, he knows he can't risk it. He's got his own future to consider. If they told Peter's mother, she'd tell his parents, who'd probably rush down to conference with Father. He'd be put aside for extra mass or extra confession, separated from Peter at all times, and probably surrounded by girls in a vain attempt to cure him. Hadn't he tried that himself, back when he'd first realised? They might even kick him out of the school altogether, and then it'll be total goodbye to Notre Dame or even Berkeley. Then again, his mother would probably just die on the spot of horror and shame and his dad would just beat the crap out of him. Or out of Peter, which would be so much worse, because then it'd all be Jason's fault, all because of Jason's sins, his weakness. Peter's blood on Jason's hands, like it might literally stain his father's. Peter might be hurt. God, Peter…

So they can't know, no matter how much happier Peter would be, however much Jason himself could really use a break from all the constant spinning of lies like a spider's web, engulfing them deeper and deeper. Sometimes, he has nightmares where he wakes up and all he knows are lies, and they are all he can say. Knowing it's all a dream doesn't help at all, because the lying is ever so slowly becoming almost a habit.

But he has Peter and that has to be enough, for now at least.

It is enough, isn't it? It should be.

And most of the time it is.

He could easily blame crashing over at Ivy's (and Nadia's, says that voice in his head that keeps up the golden boy façade; it's still her room even if she wasn't there for at least half the night) on being tired, or not wanting to get caught drunk by ay of the teachers, because then they'd call his parents, or give him the ultimate time-wasting lecture of all time, which Lucas would benefit from much more than him, and Peter would understand, even if he wouldn't be entirely happy. But there's nothing to blame kissing Ivy on, not even alcohol because Jason simply doesn't ever get that drunk. And Peter knows that, because he knows Jason entirely too well, sometimes.

Mostly, he just loves it.

* * *

He doesn't have time to go back to his own dorm room to get changed before rehearsal, so he only roughly combs through his hair using Nadia's brush and rushes downstairs, thankful that it's Saturday and no uniform applies. Everyone else is already there, and Sister Chantelle is discussing something with his sister, who seems to be protesting. Jason moves to slip next to Peter, who's standing somewhat to the side, just staring off into space and ignoring the world, but Ivy intercepts him.

"Will I see you later?" she asks, but all he can do is shrug, because Peter is there, and they haven't even talked so far today and at that moment he can't quite bring himself to care about Ivy.

"Yeah, I think so," he answers, knowing that they'll have to see each other at dinner and in the common year room anyway, no matter what he says, or wants.

"Try again," she says, and Jason sighs, because this isn't a video game and he can't just change the settings.

"Yes, you'll see me later," he promises, because they're sure to _see _each other, just not in the way that Ivy so obviously wants.

"Okay, I won't ask you when," she says, and there's a hint of mild distaste mixed with resignment in her tone, like she's become so used to boys falling all over her that she doesn't know what to do with one that she wants who doesn't want her. "But I'm free tonight, so you know…" she trails off, suggestively. But Jason hadn't even wanted to know, because privately he's hoping that he himself won't be free, like Peter wouldn't, and they could spend tonight together. But before he can answer, say anything at all in an attempt to let her down gently, she slinks away, and Jason slips instead into his rightful place at Peter' side, and mutters a low "Hey."

Peter turns towards him, and there's a painful hybrid of messed-up emotions painted across his face, and Jason thinks he could spend forever learning how to decipher every single shadow and every single gleam, every line and expression painted on Peter's face.

And that thought fucking _terrifies _him.

Because he shouldn't want that much, care that much, not for another boy, not when it's such a terrible sin to be having those thoughts, those feelings at all.

"Where were you last night? I waited up." Peter whispered, and Jason had to try so hard to repress the feelings of guilt that kept resurfacing.

"I crashed at Ivy's," is all he says.

"Oh, really?" Peter replies, and Jason almost tells him that nothing happened, but remembers that stupid, unimportant kiss and knows that even that statement would be somewhat a lie, so he doesn't, because he could never stand lying to Peter.

But he wants to tell him that, even as he's scared of doing so at the same time. Peter's facial expression is a mixture of apprehension and want, envy and joy, hurt and something that's almost puzzlement, like he'd been promised something that they've now decided to withhold, and he can't quite figure out why; and all Jason can think is that, for all of Ivy's artistic talent, she could spend several lifetimes drawing Peter and never be able to capture the emotions of that moment. God, he doubts that even any of the great artists Sister Claudia valiantly tried to teach them about could, not when Peter looks like that. He opens his mouth to say something, not even knowing what it'll turn out to be, but he doesn't manage to, because at that moment Sister Chantelle's voice interrupts the quiet chatter throughout the room and the moment is gone, and Jason doesn't even know what he would've said, nor what he should've.

"Alright people, lets get this show started. Peter, honey, you've been looking at me all day," she sighed theatrically. "I hate to break it to you: I'm off the market." They all laugh at that, even Jason, although inside he's thinking how much easier, how much more _normal _it would be if Peter did indeed like Sister Chantelle in that way, if Jason's own breath didn't catch every time he so much as looked at the other boy. Sure, the others would have laughed and ridiculed, but it wouldn't be the righteous disdain and utter disgust they'd get if they came out.

"Places for the fight scene!" Sister Chantelle calls, and they move slowly into positions, early Saturday morning drowsiness spread around like a suffocating blanket, and Jason is next to Peter again, and can already feel the heat in the air between them, like frizzed electricity. That's what it always feels like in public, a jolt of surprise and careful looks around to check whether anyone had noticed, mixed in with the pure ecstasy of simply touching Peter.

"Romeo, the love I bear the can afford no better term than this: thou art a villain." Matt says, and surely he has no idea of how true that is, because he would mean it only in terms of Ivy's interest in him, not in him being an abomination in God's eyes.

But he's calm when he answers, repeating lines practiced with Peter in their room, breathlessly in-between kisses.

"Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain, am I none. Therefore farewell, I see thou knowest me not." Peter is right, he thinks. The play really does seem more like a romance between Tybalt and Romeo, than between Juliet and the latter. Then again, it's not like Shakespeare could've written a gay romance, even one ending it tragedy, especially not in Elizabethan times.

"Oh calm, dishonourable, vile submission." Peter says, and isn't this about their relationship, really? So vile to the rest of the world, such submission to the Devil, a dishonour to God, thought that was so far from what they really wanted. Oh, but there was nothing calm about it at all…

He steps towards Peter, laying one hand on is his upper arm, and hoping that he'll understand what Jason cannot show, that this is more than the play, this is them, in some way. Best friends, defending each other. Poetic, Peter's mother had called it. He wonders whether there were any lines that implied any attraction between Romeo and Mercutio and makes a mental note to ask Peter about it. He'd always been better at subtler interpretations.

"Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up" he says, as Peter lunges forward towards Matt, who pretends to hit him with the fake sword. Peter falls back, clutching at his side, and although Jason knows that it'll all just an act, he can't quite restrain the flash of worry and pain that momentarily flashes across his face. He doesn't realise that Nadia's observing him carefully, nor that she had in fact noticed, because for a minute all he can see is Peter falling, Peter dying, and imagines never being able to see Peter again. And he knows in that moment that he would do anything, be anything, come out to the whole world, no matter the consequences, to have Peter alive and well. And with him, because frankly, he's miserable without Peter there. Summer break had stopped being fun a couple of years ago, coinciding perfectly with their first meeting. Even before this thing, their secret relationship started, Peter was changing his life.

"Courage, the man, the hurt can't be too much." He says, as his sister protests against something Sister Chantelle is saying in the far corner. It's almost a nod to their secret, because it's Peter who the lying hurts more.

"Why the devil came you between us? I was slain under your arm," Peter answers, word perfect, but Jason knows that it's not just an act, that Peter wouldn't have to lie, something he hated doing, if it wasn't for Jason. And sometimes he thinks he should end it, put Peter out of his misery; but all it takes is seeing Peter again, or even just hearing his voice, and he knows that he _can't_, because it would tear him apart. But all the same, he can't quite help but feel a little guilty, even though he knows that those are not Peter's words, they're a dying and bitter Mercutio's, put into their mouths by a long dead man who may not even have been who called himself, at least according to their conspiracy-loving English teacher, a squat priest called Benedict.

"I thought for all the best," Jason answers, and there's a plea, an excuse and something that sounds almost like a broken promise in his tone, it feels like he's defending himself, and it suddenly occurs to him that in some way he is. In some way, this would have been part of his defense about kissing Ivy.

But he's supposed to be acting, so he lunges towards Matt and they parry for a minute. But Jason is momentarily distracted by a movement just to the edge of his eyesight, and looks over to see Peter there, watching him. He shoots him a quick smile, and is too preoccupied to notice Matt's fake sword hitting his own, only seeing it go flying off to the side when it's far too late. He expects Matt to stop, Sister Chantelle to yell at him to be more careful and make them re-run the whole scene, but the nun is at the other side of the room, ensuring that Ivy and Nadia remain civil while running their next scene, and Matt makes for him again, fists raised, and it suddenly hits Jason that this too is more than just acting.

"FAGGOT!" He yells, and the world seems to freeze around him. Jason barely feels Matt's fist collide with his jaw, although he is half-aware that he reels back, mouth stinging, to find Peter suddenly at his side. But for once his lover's presence is no comfort, because his all he can hear is an endless litany of "they found out, they found out, oh god, what will I do?" running on endless playback inside his mind. He leaps forward after Matt, because maybe if he acts well enough, nobody will believe the other boy.

"What the fuck did you call me?" he shouts, and thinks that perhaps the others were right about him being a good actor, because his voice sounds almost affronted, not betraying any of the fear he's really feeling. It should run in the family, after all Nadia's one hell of a mimic and his mum was the lead in three consecutive plays at Notre Dame.

"You heard me!" Matt yells back, and struggles vainly in an attempt to push Jason away, but being on the football team really has its advantages and he punches Matt again, feeling the hard skin under his fist and the way there's an all too audible crunch, that seems to almost echo around the room. He'd probably broken Matt's nose. Well, it'd serve the bastard right. Matt tries to retaliate, but Sister Chantelle takes that moment to shove them apart, with more strength than he would've supposed a school nun like her would have, indignation evident on her face.

"Hey you two! Where do you think you are? Public school? Matt, follow me. Everyone else out." The others move slowly, eager to stick around and see at least part of the aftermath, but Sister Chantelle shoos them away, and eventually they all stream out, whispering amongst each other in voices that aren't quiet enough, and Jason's heard his name mentioned too many times.

* * *

He's left there with only Peter by his side, but it's not in the pleasant way he's so gotten used to. Instead there's an underlining of tension there, of worry, stress that's not supposed to show, because anyone could come back at any minute.

"What was that all about?" Peter asks, and his voice is soft, like he doesn't quite trust himself to speak.

"I don't know." He answers, because he sincerely doesn't have a clue how Matt could've found out. It was probably something ridiculous, a simple misunderstanding, like Matt thinking that just because Ivy was his type, and well, a hell of a lot of people's type, she had to be his as well, when even if he was straight, it might not have been the case at all. That's probably the most likely explanation because after all, he'd been so careful, and he didn't think Peter would've told anyone without telling him first, or at the very least straight afterwards, so he'd at least know.

Then again, reminded a cruel voice in his head, he hadn't exactly told Peter about the kiss with Ivy, had he? Even though it had been just a kiss, he knew Peter would want to know, _should _know. But even if he hadn't had the right to, Jason knows he would've felt the need to tell him anyway. Peter was the one person he'd always found it so difficult to hold secrets back from. That was how their entire relationship had started, after all.

Peter himself seems to be working up the courage to say something, so Jason only waits for it, but the words, when they do come, make him feel almost like he'd just been doused with a bucket of cold barely-melted water, nearly as much of a shock as Matt's outburst a few minutes earlier.

"Jason, I… Last night, I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't mean to, but… Jason, I told him about us. Just him, and that's all he knows, but Jase, I swear to God it wasn't intentional." Jason just looks at him, and despite everything he's still spellbound, because Peter's eyes are shining with unshed tears, and he can see a blurry reflection of himself in them; and in that moment, all he wants to do is just take Peter in his arms and tell him that it'll be alright, that they'll get through this, because as long as they're together nothing else matters as much as it probably should.

But his jaw still stings with the imprint of Matt' fist, and he thinks that come morning, it'll probably have bruised. Matt would probably look even worse, and feel much worse, because for all of the time he's spent trailing after Ivy, she's still far more likely to take Jason's side over his. And he realizes that although he himself has fighting expertise, not to mention immense athletic abilities, Peter has none of that. He'd be practically helpless against Jason's intolerant, dim-witted teammates, and it could only get worse. And so Jason knows what he must do to save him, however much it would hurt Peter, and himself doubly so because it hurt him doubly when Peter hurt.

So he says, voice as flat and emotionless as he can make it, because Peter's always been able to influence him too much, and he has to pretend not to care, "Look, this, us, whatever, it has to stop, okay," even though it's not okay, because he can still remember that long, bleak, desolate-seeming time, when he only had Peter as a friend and wanted more. The prospect of re-living that nearly kills him. The image of Peter beaten up and bloody is even worse.

Peter protests, but he ignores it, because if he lets himself listen he'll back down, and he's doing this all for Peter's wellbeing, even if he can't do it for his happiness. Instead, he only brushes his right hand through his hair and turns away.

"Jason, you're all I have, don't you get that?" Peter shouts after him, and the grief and heartbreak are so evident in his voice that it's all Jason can do _not _to turn around. But he reminds himself firmly that he's doing this all for Peter, and bites his lower lip harshly to keep the sobs at bay. He can't break down, even as he feels his heart literally fracture into a million tiny segments, even as he walks away from the boy who he's pretty sure is the one, the love of his goddamn life, no matter how wrong it might be. So he walks away mindlessly, leaving Peter behind in the empty practice room, fully aware that he's making the biggest mistake of his whole fucking life; because no matter how necessary he might deem it, he's already regretting his own decision.


	4. Chapter 4

Jason hides away in one of the boys' bathroom stalls, staring at the faded beige walls and too bright graffiti. Some of it is crude and obscene, mostly about Ivy, but two comments are painfully profound, if a tad overdramatic. 'Today we mourn the death of honesty to the art of saving face,' says one, in bold blue permanent marker scribbled at an angle onto the door, and really, how much had Jason lied and pretended, just in order to save his reputation. He'd gotten Peter to lie as well, but now it was all over, in more ways than one. His popularity and the 'golden boy' status he'd tried so hard to maintain had probably died a swift death by Matt's remark, which was sure to have spread among the rest of the school by now. And, now this thing he'd had with Peter was over too. He sighs, and tugs a hand through his hair and, reluctantly, yet knowing he can't waylay it forever, steps out of the stall. The only other occupant is a young boy of around fourteen who looks at him with something that's almost awe with just a little hint of fear, and as Jason looks into the mirror, he can almost see himself at that age. A bit more unsure, and already feeling the pressure from his father, playing sports he hated just because the older man had wanted it, in a feeble attempt to prove something to himself, to take his mind off his ever-growing attraction to his new roommate. And as they pass each other, he thinks of the other writing on the wall, 'People who you look up to are really just as fucked up as you', and almost wonders what the general student population would think if they knew the truth about him. Almost, but he doesn't, because it's obvious. He's an abomination, and now they'll all know.

When he does finally make it up to the dorm to pack, there's a hastily scribbled note from Peter lying on his bed, saying that his mom had come earlier than expected, and ending on a hopeful 'see you after break', like nothing had changed between them. Jason wants that, but he knows all too well that wanting something enough will not make it true. After all, if it did, he would never have had any romantic feelings towards a boy in the first place. Not even Peter, never mind how Peter tasted, or the fact that he felt so right against him… Fuck.

He has to make himself get over him. But it hadn't worked at the start, so he knows it won't work now, especially since now he actually knows what it's like to have Peter.

* * *

He'd almost finished packing up for break when there's an almost hesitant knock at his door. It's Ivy, and he really doesn't want to talk to her, but he knows he has to, anyway. He can't just lead her on, not when that kiss hadn't meant anything to him, when he just wasn't interested in her.

"Hey. Leaving soon?" she asked.

"Yeah. Tonight" Jason hadn't meant to, the original plan had been to leave tomorrow morning, but he's catching the fucking train anyway and it's not like his parents will question it, or even give a fuck. There's not much point staying overnight without Peter, anyway. There's Nadia, of course but she'll just be ecstatic at not having to spend any more time with Ivy.

"Me too," she says, though he hadn't asked. He's still packing up, fumbling with a book Peter had given to him for his birthday last year, all the gay subtext underlined in faint pencil. It had been a good present, although Peter waking him up early on that Saturday morning with a birthday blowjob had been even better. The memory almost makes him smile, before he remembers that nothing like that will be happening this year. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm hanging in there," he says, too quickly and knows that she'll recognise the lie for what it is. Thankfully, she doesn't call him out on it, only replies, "Me too," and it's glaringly obvious that she's okay in the same sense that he is, only by attempts to make himself seem so.

"Look, erm… I didn't want to take off before apologising, for the way I acted at my party. I was," He'd been a fool that night, he'd ignored Peter and acted like such a fucking asshole. "wasted and I didn't mean to like, throw myself at you." She finished, hesitantly.

"It's okay," he assures her, with a lie that comes too easily. "It was kinda cute, actually." It should've been. He's quite sure Matt would consider Ivy throwing herself at him some sort of dream come true but it only serves to make him somewhat queasy, like after eating those muffins that he and Peter had found left behind in one of the cupboards when they'd first been assigned to this room.

"But I meant all those things I said. I really do like you Jason. I can't quite put my finger on the why, but there's just something about you, you know." And it's like a swift punch to the gut, because that's how he feels about Peter, how he's not supposed to feel about Peter. There's something about Peter too, something in his shy smile and the way his dusky eyelashes cast shadows like crumbling charcoal across his eyes that just captivates Jason every single fucking time.

"You want me to kiss you, don't you? Kiss you is what I'm supposed to do…" he trails off, because he knows that it's true. It's what God wants, after all, and surely God must know best.

"So, are you going to?" Ivy asks coyly, looking at him in a way that was probably supposed to be enticing, but all he can do is feel sorry for her, sorry for Matt. It wasn't fair that Ivy wanted him, if he couldn't reciprocate, wasn't fair that Matt liked her so much. And what, with Ivy practically throwing herself at him, how could he possibly be surprised that Matt had gone off drinking last night, that he'd gotten Peter drunk. No wonder Peter had told him. After all, he'd done to Peter what Ivy had done to Matt, only it had been a thousand times worse, because Ivy had never even pretended to like Matt, whereas he did like Peter, too much. So much as to try to give him up.

"If you like me, kiss me. I want you. I know you see it in my eyes. I tried, but it's so hard to hide."

"Hide with me," he responds, and in a way it's almost instinct, because isn't that what he'd asked Peter to do? Lie and pretend, and watch as so many girls flirted with Jason, as he flirted back, even though he didn't really care about any of them. Watch the betrayal, and only wonder how long they would last.

"Chasing you is such a game of hide and seek," Ivy tells him, not knowing that she's actually referring more to his and Peter's relationship, played out in shadowy corners and behind locked doors. There must be something seriously wrong with Jason if he can't stop thinking about Peter on the very day that he'd had broken up with him. It's not fair, it's not right, it's terribly sinful, and he should like Ivy instead. It would be so much more normal. Yeah, he should like her, because weren't all the others jerking off to the memories of one-night stands with Ivy Robinson. He should like it as she kisses him, with lips too slick with dark lipgloss and hands that clench too tight in his hair, as if clinging on to the moment, but the only person Jason ever wanted to freeze time for was Peter. Her mouth is too wet, coated with too much saliva, and God, how drunk must Jason have been last night not to remember how wrong this felt? The bizarre thing was that this was supposed to be right, was supposed to feel as right as being with Peter _shouldn't._

She pulls away and reaches up to undo the buttons of her shirt, and he supposes he should feel something except this utter numbness. Instead, he kisses her again, not letting himself flinch when he feels her tongue twist against his own, in a feeble attempt to put off the moment most guys would want to hurry to. Straight guys, like Jason is supposed to be.

Her top is unbuttoned, the nipples of her large breasts dark and hard. Experimentally, he rubs one in his hand, and she moans, too high, too soft, too girly. It's not nearly enough of a gasp, not low enough, not _Peter_ enough.

He can't do this, not even to prove to himself that he's just as normal as everyone else

He can't do this, not even to prove to himself that he's just as normal as everyone else, even as Peter's last words to him echo in his mind _"you're all I have." _Sometimes Peter is all he has too, and it terrifies him. He just wants to be normal.

But he's not. Because everyone else (thankfully) hasn't been secretly fucking Peter for months behind closed doors, everyone else is actually living a life that doesn't mean constantly looking around, fearing that someone had seen you kiss someone who is only supposed to be your best friend. He can't come out, but he sure as hell can't go that far into the hypothetical closet, not when it feels so much like he's cheating on Peter. It shouldn't feel like he's cheating on Peter, they're not even together anymore, but old habits are hard to break (especially when you don't really want to) and it does.

He can't do this to Peter, to Ivy, to Matt, to himself. And, in a way even to Nadia, because he's almost about to sleep with a girl his twin sister hates and that he's not even particularly attracted to, all to take his mind off another boy and his own mistakes.

He pushes her away gently.

"I can't do this. It isn't you, I swear it. It's just that," he breaks away, wondering what he can possibly say in such a situation, because ironically Peter had always been the better liar; whether to lie or not, and eventually settles for the easy half-truth. "I… already have feelings for someone else, and it wouldn't be fair. To either of you."

Ivy stares at him in shock, but there's almost a glimmer of sad understanding in her eyes, and Jason thinks that maybe they'll be able to salvage their friendship from this mess, like a crippled survivor from a burning building, as long as she doesn't decide to become a matchmaker for him and the 'other girl.'

"Oh," she says, and gives him a small, sardonic smile. "I'm not that sure I'd mind."

He laughs slightly, relieved that she at least seems to be taking it reasonably well and replies that he'd rather not blow his chances so early.

She fiddles with her skirt, twirling unravelling threads around in elaborate patterns. "Who is she, anyway?"

Shit. Well, in hindsight he really should've seen that one coming.

"Erm, Matt likes you. It wouldn't be fair to him either. He's kind of my friend." He hedges, because that's the one question he definitely can't answer.

"I know." She snaps, like she's tired of hearing it, and Jason wonders if she'd known he'd end up turning her down. But she sighs, and he doesn't ask. "I mean, he's kind of cute in a way, I guess, but he's not you." She smoothes out invisible wrinkles, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. "I guess you're not going to tell me then."

All he can do is shake his head, ignoring how doubly disappointed she looks. Seriously, why did so many girls like matchmaking? At least his sister was more normal.

"I wish I could be in love with you," he admits, and she looks up, startled. "It would be easier than the reality, anyway." He stands up, grabbing his bags, and slinging one over his left shoulder. "Anyway, I've sort of got to go. See you after break I guess."

Impulsively, he reaches down and hugs her goodbye, and lets her kiss him for the last time, a faint, light peck on his lips. When he pulls away, her eyes are damp, and a somewhat broken half-smile on her face, but at least she's trying and that has to be a start, right?

"I'm sure she likes you back," she shouts after him. "After all, who wouldn't?" Ivy sounds almost wistful, and it throws him for a moment because he's never heard Ivy sound wistful before, like she'd wanted something she won't ever be able to get but knows she has to accept that.

He'd heard Peter sound like that too many times.

* * *

Nadia waits for him in the hall, one bag slung carelessly over her shoulder with an almost mirrored action of his own, and the other lying at her feet.

"You look like shit," is her only greeting. "Ready?"

"Sure," he replies, wishing he could answer with some witty comment, but he knows that he must indeed look pretty awful. Already, he knows that it's going to be an even worse holiday than usual. Their parents will be busy as always, and he probably won't even be able to talk to Peter, because how could Peter possibly want to talk to him now?

As the train pulls out of the almost deserted station, he listens to his iPod on shuffle, song after song that he can barely hear over the pitter-patter of the rain outside, his sister's cello practice and the sound of his own, too loud thoughts. One of the songs startles him, as if he'd been jolted awake by a bolt of sudden lightning or God's own gentle, guiding hand. It's not a song he particularly knows, he'd probably only heard it once or twice before, but that's not what actually matters.

'Whatever it takes'

Jason knows that's what he'll have to do if he's to have any hope whatsoever of getting Peter back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning: abuse of ellipses in speech.**

* * *

Perhaps had it happened a week or so ago, he would've only felt somewhat let down, hurt and disappointed, or perhaps even a little angry, lost in a land of futile dreams doomed to be unfulfilled.

Instead, he was fucking terrified.

The angel might've said that 'things' would get worse before they got better, but this wasn't just 'worse'. It wasn't fair; they hadn't even given him a chance to do anything, to even try. The Church always maintained that God was so loving, but this only seemed like heartless cruelty, to tell him in the first place, then make it so that the very revelation was meaningless, because there was nothing he could fucking do.

Because now Jason wouldn't even talk to him, wouldn't even answer his phone, the traitor, though Peter knew he almost always kept it on. He'd already called three times, one time, it seemed, for every time his namesake had denied Jesus, and every time it felt more and more like a denial, like a painful reminder of Jason's actions in public. He'd never thought it would extend to private matters. Then again, he'd never expected Jason to break up with him over Matt's outburst, which really, none of the others seem to have taken seriously. After all, everyone knew that Matt was jealous of Jason due to Ivy's rather unfortunate crush.

His phone rang then, a generic ringtone because Peter could never really decide on a song, and the caller ID made his heart skip a beat in surprise. He really hadn't expected Jason to call him back, especially not so soon. Quickly, before the other boy could change his mind and hang up, he answered. "Hi,"

"Hey," came Jason's voice over the line, sounding as unsure and hesitant as the day they'd first kissed. It was unfamiliar, hearing Jason like that, when normally he was so confident, almost cocky really, amusement mixed in with obvious affection. An uncomfortable silence followed their greetings, and Peter thinks he really ought to say something, especially since he'd called first, and there must've been something he'd have said if Jason answered, but his mind is as blank as Diane's on the first day of rehearsals, and so instead it's Jason who finally breaks the silence.

"Look I just… You probably don't want to talk to me…" And his phone must be displaying all of Peter's missed calls, so how can he think that? How could he ever think that, because Peter could listen to Jason's voice all day. "I just… I didn't… Ivy came to talk to me and… Look, I just wanted to… I'm sorry, okay?" and it's awkward for the first time between them, and Peter's thoughts are suddenly all over the place, and he really doesn't get where Jason's trying to go with all this.

Jason hangs up, and Peter stares at the phone until his mother calls him downstairs for dinner. His father had cancelled again. He switches the light off, and tries not to think about how everyone important in his life seems to be abandoning him all at once.

* * *

The train runs late just to spite him, and they stumble bleary-eyed into the deserted entrance hall, just past the stroke of midnight. Somewhere on an upper floor, a bunch of loud freshmen are celebrating, most probably a birthday or something, and the kaleidoscopic lights flicker as they sign in on black, leathery notebook that forms the students' register. Nadia mutters something about being ecstatic to be momentarily free from both their parents and Ivy, but Jason barely notices, because Peter came back that day, and the simple knowledge of that almost makes him a wreck. He hides it well though, a practiced art, and repeats the over-used joke about Ivy never sleeping alone anyway, so surely they must end up in the boys' rooms sometimes. And all of a sudden Nadia's gaze seems sharply accusing in the half-light, so he hurriedly adds a "Not that I would know. Anyway, see you tomorrow. Breakfast?" as he turns away.

"Yeah," she mutters, and they walk in opposite directions, his heard thudding like an obscenely loud drum in his ears, because it was still Peter; and he'd thought he could do this, but with every step, he's just proving to himself just how much he _can't._

It takes him a ridiculously short time to reach his dorm room, for once not interrupted by various teammates or random girls he'd never been interested in. He flicks the light on and stops abruptly, startled out of breath.

Peter is sprawled out like a damning offering on Jason's bed, half-tangled in the pale sheets and turned mostly towards him. His hair is mussed and curling at his neck, and he looks sweet and angelic, and still as beautiful as Jason had always thought him. But he's twisting and twitching, obviously in the grasp of some terrible nightmare, and the honourable thing, what Jason should do, is to just wake him up. Logically, he's probably only there because he was exhausted by the time he arrived and simply flopped down on the nearest bed, and Peter in his bed should not mean so much to him anymore. His suitcase is stood in the corner, and even now that's a relief, because he'd feared that Peter might've tried to swap rooms with someone, or move in with Lucas, who'd been alone since the Stubbs' had moved away to France and taken Connor along with them.

That's what he should do, but at the moment it's all he can do not to take Peter into his arms and just hold him, and God, surely he should've noticed when he'd become such a sappy girl. Well, thankfully not literally because then there'd be no hope for him and Peter, no matter how much more socially acceptable their relationship would become, although at least it would've gotten Ivy off his back.

"Don't," Peter murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, and it's obvious he doesn't realise, but even so, Jason still freezes at the sound of his voice. "Die. Leave. Please. Please. _Please,_"and the last one is almost a moan, but not the pleasant kind Jason had become so used to hearing, and it startles him. Somehow, Peter always seemed too innocent for the kind of nightmares that plagued Jason, dreams where everyone, God included, turned against them, sometimes only against him, because in the very worst ones Peter would leave, mocking him cruelly, even though in real life Peter was almost never cruel, and questioning how Jason could have ever supposed that Peter could love somebody like him, and when he wakes up from nightmares so vivid they seem real, Peter is usually his only comfort.

"Jase," Peter murmurs, softer now, and he thinks 'oh, what the hell,' because it could be some kind of sign, right? So he strips down, leaving his clothes lying haphazardly on the carpet and clambers into bed, _his _bed; next to Peter who melts into him with a sigh and a murmur that's too low for him to hear; and thinks that it's several degrees of wrong that simply lying there with Peter feels so much more right than kissing Ivy had, unless God has some sort of thing about celibacy, in which case they're kind of doomed anyway.

* * *

Peter wakes up early, half-covered by something warm and entirely too familiar. Someone who shouldn't even be back yet, because he'd come back earlier just so he could get away from it all, come back without Jason there. And now, he was there, as if just to spite Peter, although he had to admit it was kind of pleasant, albeit in a rather torturous way. Although perhaps this was a way of making things right, a second or perhaps even third chance from God, after he'd screwed up by not doing anything fast enough. Or perhaps he was even still sleeping, and Jason's presence was only a dream. After all, even if Jason had come back, he'd no longer be sleeping in Peter's bed, so it's not like his dream even makes sense.

Dream-Jason certainly feels real though, draped half-over Peter, and he's still heavy enough for it to be uncomfortable. And the object of his fantasy burrows closer to him, almost snuggling, which is something the real Jason rarely did, except in those rare times where he messed up on a test or had a bad sports practice, or woke up from a nightmare and needed to be comforted, not that he'd have ever admitted to it.

"Gods, Pete. You in my bed is so fucking hot, you know," he mutters, and Peter freezes, because although his subconscious probably knows Jason's voice enough to reproduce it, there's no way he's masochistic enough to imagine the way Jason feels, warm, tingling skin sliding effortlessly against his own, or the way he smells, summer and fresh citrus fruit and sharp sea salt, the mere trace of which never fails to get Peter immediately hard.

"Jase. Jason. Jason!" he calls, shaking the other boy gently, and waiting till Jason's eyes open slowly.

"Morning," he mutters sleepily, and Peter has to struggle to fight off a smile, because for all that this whole situation doesn't make sense, there's an underlying normalcy underneath it all and really, this is what he'd missed for the past week.

"Why are you in my bed?" he asks, starting with the obvious, partly with the ridiculous hope that it would have all been a dream, and they were still together, and everything was going to be _fine._

Jason frowns for a second, disorientated with sleep, then laughs, partially a chuckle with a hint of a sigh, and answers that it's actually his bed. And with a start, Peter realises that he's actually right, but he'd become so used to waking up in Jason's bed that he hadn't even realised.

He smiles sheepishly, and watches Jason brush a hand through messy hair and smile fondly at him, thinks that this should probably be uncomfortable as hell.

And in a way it kind of is, as Jason turns towards him with a reluctant sigh, "Peter, what happened at the rehearsal… it was messed up and, I'm sorry. And my apology… hell, my apology was even worse." He laughs, but it's forced, and Peter has to smile despite himself, because Jason is _never _nervous, except that he totally is.

"Yeah, it really was. Worst apology I ever heard," he comments idly, and thinks it's obvious from the way Jason's eye twitches that he really wants to tell him to shut up.

"Look, I just… I don't want it to be like this. And I know I overreacted, but I really like being with you, and damn… you're really much better at words than me. It's kind of like that song you like, the 'My Life Would Suck Without You' one, you know, the terrible one; and well, mine really would." And really, it's kind of romantic in its own, terrible way, even the insult to his taste in music, and Peter has to close his eyes and smile against the darkness for a minute at the pure power of it, because for once it's Jason asking, begging _him _for something, and he really shouldn't be so tempted to take advantage of the situation.

"So, basically you want to pretend the last week never happened?" he asks.

"I know its lame," Jason says, grinning with forced nonchalance that's never worked on Peter anyway.

"Fair enough," he says, and grins at the surprise that flushes momentarily over Jason's face. "But"

"You want to come out." Jason interrupts with an exasperated fondness, because they've had that conversation before. "My parents…", and Peter knows that it's the time for a compromise that'll be on his terms for once.

"No," he answers firmly, and watches Jason's eyes flash to his. "Not necessarily. Look, let's just try to bring up gays, and see how our friends react. I mean, they can't all be homophobes, so we could tell them, and like, Nadia and Lucas will probably be cool with it. But I do want to tell my mom."

"Great, so she'll tell my mom, who'll immediately call my dad, and they'll come down here, and then _everyone _will know." He really shouldn't be surprised, Jason's defence mechanism had always been sarcasm, but it still stings.

"Not necessarily," he says, and Jason scoffs and tells him that his family are not just going to suddenly become completely different people.

"No, like not necessarily about us, I just want to come out to her. She's my mom, I need her to know," and he hates the childish way his voice turns pleading, and Jason's jaw tightens ever so slightly but his eyes soften, and really, Peter is not lying. It'll be easier that way, because once she accepts him, because she'll have to eventually; he's her only son, and he knows that she loves him, despite the fact that they seem to have so little in common these days, it'll be a much smaller step for her to accept his relationship, and really, it's going to be hard enough for Jason with his own parents.

His boyfriend (because if they're considering the break-up after rehearsal to have never happened then Jason is still/once again his secret boyfriend) looks reluctant, but he agrees and that's enough.

"Besides," Peter adds with a smile, because there's at least one part of the visit/vision he can tell Jason about, "I had this dream or vision the other night, and it was of the Virgin Mary, and she was black and she had all these back-up singers, and she said that God doesn't mind, you know, people like us, so it's fine."

Jason chuckles, "That's probably at least partly wishful thinking. Anyway, I think Ivy will figure it out pretty soon."

Peter frowns, because although Ivy fancies herself in love with Jason and so spends a lot of time watching him, it's also made her much more likely to overlook anything potentially damning when it comes to them.

"I tried to sleep with her," he elaborates apologetically, but even so Peter can't breathe, because _Jason and Ivy?_, and he knows that he's probably being glaringly obvious about how jealous and betrayed he feels, but it doesn't matter, because even if Jason's being upfront about it, it doesn't turn time back, doesn't help. As he turns away, he wonders what made Ivy refuse.

"Not like that!" Jason hisses, and his face is suddenly too close to Peter's, pushing him back against the bed. "I couldn't, because all I kept thinking about was you."

Peter kisses him then, hard and desperate and wanting, even though there are a thousand things they haven't talked about yet, and really need to; and doesn't pull away until his lungs scream for air and Jason's eyes are glazed over, and he thinks that maybe there's some semblance of hope left for them after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Their rehearsal was a disaster.

Ivy wasn't there, and Diane was fumbling, not knowing the lines half as well as she'd thought she did. If Shakespeare wasn't already dead, he'd probably commit suicide after seeing barely a few minutes of their rendition of his work. Thinking about it, Peter's eyes jerk over to Jason, standing bored, waiting for his less than perfect counterpart. He looked alright, right now life was pretty alright, and Peter was finding it increasingly difficult to take the warning seriously, especially when Jason had kissed him in an empty hallway, a quick pressure of lips that nonetheless left him reeling and disorientated for the first five minutes of class. He'd never been less interested in atomic structures in his life.

"Good pilgrim," Diane repeats uncertainly. "Wait, I know it, I swear!" she protests, except that she doesn't, and Peter had really wanted to "act" like he loved Jason and this was likely to be his only chance.

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this. For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." Sometimes in reviews, theatre critics claimed that a specific actor was practically born to play a role. This, at that moment, was Peter's, as he steps up and finishes the line for her. She stares at him in disbelief for a long moment before running off, sobbing.

Peter doesn't let himself feel guilty, because he's really doing this; he's really flirting with Jason, albeit in Shakespeare with scripted prose, in front of half their graduating class.

Somewhere behind him, a boy laughs, unforgivingly judgemental.

"Zach," Sister Chantelle admonishes, "in Shakespeare's time, boys played all the parts, so I'll thank you to keep your ignorance as hidden as possible. My suggestion would be to stop breathing."

They all laugh, even as Zach flushes bright red with humiliation, but Sister Chantelle simply motions for Jason to resume acting.

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer," Peter answers, and seeing Jason's half-smirk, can't stop himself from thinking of what else those lips did to him. He blushes, and hopes that the others will put it down to the simple embarrassment of acting out a girl's part, like that was any hardship when it was with Jason.

"Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou." Peter smiles, slow and warm, and sees Jason bite his lower lip, eyes flickering to Peter's mouth, and falter in his lines. "Lest...lest..."

"Lest faith turn to despair," Peter finishes for him, and they stand there, grinning at each other, because really, it's just like their private practices; except that those had led to much nicer things, like Jason pressing him against one of the beds, one hand tangled in Peter's hair and the other one fumbling at his belt. He wishes he could just kiss Jason, openly and not have to worry.

Not have to worry about things that should never happen, things he shouldn't even know about.

"Well done, Peter." Sister Chantelle says, then harsher and uncharacteristically mordant, to the side of the room, "Ivy, nice of you to join us, but we're finished. This room will be left open, in case you want to get together one more time. As for me, I'm going to do a little Pontius Pilate, and wash my hands of it all."

"Guys, we really need to run this. Let's meet here tonight at seven-thirty," says Tanya, applying glossy pink lipstick using a small purple hand-mirror, off to fuck her boyfriend behind the bike-shed, like she did every Thursday. Really, if it wasn't for Ivy, they'd probably be jokingly calling her a whore because she's so indiscreet it's a wonder none of the nuns have done anything about it.

Nadia's voice is deliberately frosty, "All of us, and _don't_ be late," she says to Ivy, still standing by the door Sister Chantelle had just strode through grandly. She looks hopelessly alone, and despite the fact that she nearly slept with Jason, Peter can't help feeling a bit sorry for her.

He thinks that perhaps he should go over and attempt to comfort her, but then Nadia taps him on the arm. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asks, and there's an edge to her voice, like she's forcing herself to do something she's not really comfortable with, except that they've talked plenty of times before, so it really doesn't make any sense; because they're kind of friends, nowhere as close as Peter and Jason, but they should at least be comfortable with each other.

Peter nods, and picks up his bag from over in the corner, next to Jason's. "See you back in the dorm," he mutters.

Jason opens his mouth to say something, ask, then sees his sister lurking behind Peter, and despite his promise, turns away. It's almost a reflex by now, painfully so, and anyway, asking would probably make him seem like some sort of over-possessive creep.

So he simply nods and smiles, with confidence he can't feel, because he's known her their whole lives and Nadia's smile is forced, faker than their parents' futile promises and meaningless apologies.

"Sure."

* * *

Nadia leads Peter back to her dorm, messier than his and Jason's usually is, one side more than the other; the one with scatterings of skimpy, colourful clothes on the floor and large posters of men he doesn't recognize. They're all vaguely attractive, but there's something of Jason in many of them; the shade of a surfer's hair, a playful glint in another's eyes that Peter recognizes from early mornings curled up in bed together.

In complete contrast, Nadia's side has stacks of CDs and sheet music, and a lonely cello case lying on a tidily made bed. She locks the door behind them as Peter steps awkwardly to the side, next to a barely closed wardrobe.

He smiles weakly, "I've got a lot of lines to rehearse," he says, "What's the matter?"

Nadia glances over at the locked door, and turns back towards him. Her eyes are dark, face plagued with emotionss he can't read, and when she replies her voice is low and quiet, as if she's about to divulge a shameful secret. "You're in love with my brother."


	7. Chapter 7

Peter freezes. Shit.

Although, in a way, it's quite good that she's the one to have figured them out. After all, as Jason's sister, she's the one whose opinion will really matter. And it's frightening, because if she happens to be against it, he can't tell what Jason would do. Probably go back to keeping it a shameful secret, laughingly calling Peter a naïve fool for ever believing that the world could accept them, with an edge of bitterness, and they would ignore that, for however short a time, Jason had almost believed it too. Or, even worse, follow Mary's prophesy. How bitterly, painfully ironic would it be if Peter knowing, and trying to stop it, had really been the cause all along? He can't let it happen, he _can't_. So he says, "what?" like he really doesn't know what Nadia's talking about, and winces because his voice sounds panicked and strained, too high even to his own ears.

Nadia stares at him for a long moment, but he can't read her expression. There's a hint of fond amusement there, and exasperation, but thankfully, no obvious disgust. She sighs, hand brushing through the roots of her short hair and, and it's moments like these when she looks properly like Jason's sister; Jason sitting at the desk in their room, pulling at his hair and annoyed at whatever book they'd been assigned to read in English that month, because he always said the author "chose that word because it sounded better, okay," and Peter laughing that English was going to be the only subject Jason failed this year if he kept it up. He smiles briefly at the memory, because Jason's hair is always a golden mess afterwards, strands literally everywhere, like the squiggles making up Peter's geography notes. He tries, he really does, but it's hardly his fault. Dr Wathey spoke in a monotone, and had an annoying tendency to switch topics half-way through the lesson, as well as assigning an alphabetical sitting plan. So Peter ended up in the corner, with an excellent view of Jason, and the way the sunlight shining through the new windows shone up little flecks in his hair. It was very distracting, as if he'd been sprinkled in gold. Unfortunately, he'd also ended up next to Ivy, who usually spent half the time talking to him about it, and complaining about what she wouldn't do to be Jason's roommate instead, always ending with an obnoxious "It's nothing against you, Peter, but surely you understand why I think it would be better." Privately, Jason laughs and says he would consider transferring schools.

"Oh, please," Nadia scoffs. "God help me, here. It's really obvious once you know to look for it. You look at him like Matt looks at our dearest STD-infested whore, like she at Jase. He spent half of today's rehearsal staring at you like you were the second coming of Christ or something. It's kind of pathetic actually, like a kicked dog searching for one kind word from its master."

"Wait, so you're alright with it?" he asks, because knowing their luck, it's almost too good to be true.

"Look, it's not like I'm crazy about the idea. But you make him happy, and at least if it's you it's not Ivy. It would break my heart to think that my own brother had such atrocious taste," she jokes, and Peter smiles, weak as the tea his mother serves to unexpected guests.

Ivy comes in then, and her eyes are puffed and red with dried tears. "I can't believe you missed rehearsal again," Nadia snaps cruelly, like she can't see how close Ivy looks to falling apart, as Peter makes his escape.

* * *

He means to tell Jason straight away, but the minute he steps into the room, Jason pushes him against the door, slamming it shut. Peter lets him kiss him until their lips are bruised and stinging, reminiscent of late nights or early mornings.

"Where were you?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Peter's mouth.

"Talking to Nadia," he answers, and doesn't miss the way Jason tenses up against him, hand playing with the short curl framing Peter's face.

"And?" he asks.

He smiles, mischievously wicked, and half-twists away. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Jerk," Jason laughs, holding him in place.

"She's very perceptive," he says, and this time Jason is the one to pull away, small frown between his eyebrows.

"You mean?" he pauses, because he doesn't have to go on. The meaning is perfectly clear.

"Yeah," he says, pulling Jason forwards, back against him, because the heater's broken again, and Jason provides the best warmth. "She's fine with it," short kiss, and Peter breathes "We're _fine._"

"Cool," Jason says, the adjective that Peter hates. "'Cause we're not fine with Ivy,"

"You told her?" he asks before he can help it.

"Always the tone of surprise," Jason comments, like it wasn't totally justified, "No, I didn't actually. It must be like freaky girl gaydar or something."

"So she hates us?" It's hard to imagine Ivy ever hating Jason for anything.

"Nope," Jason answers, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just you. But I think she'd hate any girl I liked, so it doesn't really matter."

"I'm not a girl!" Peter protests, hurt, but mostly incredulous and actually slightly concerned, because if Jason hasn't realised that by now then all that stupid sport must have caused some serious brain damage.

Jason only laughs, pressing a kiss to Peter's cheek. "I know," he says, "but she blames you for converting me."

"How would she know you were ever straight?"

Jason shrugs, "Nearly slept with her, remember?" and the reminder leaves a bitter taste in Peter's mouth, like the blessed holy bread which had gone mouldy last April, or the memories of his nightmares, particularly the recent ones, filled with righteous hate and an unexpected pregnancy, and finally dreadful, terrible silence.

In his dreams, Jason falls and doesn't rise again.

In real life, he only waves a hand in front of Peter's face to get his attention. "You okay?" he asks. "I thought this was what you wanted."

"Yeah, just," Jason is really what he wants; he just wants to be allowed to show it. "I don't know, I can't help thinking something's going to go wrong, I mean we've been really lucky, what with Nadia and all."

"Relax," Jason says. "Besides, you're the one who's always saying to give the world a chance. It's kind of like that dream you had," and Peter freezes, because how could Jason know? "God's approval and all. Would be nice," he adds, half-wistfully.

"Yeah, I guess," he answers, and Jason frowns slightly, eyebrows raised.

"What an altar boy you make."

Peter pauses. "It wasn't all a good dream," he says finally, because however much he may want to tell Jason, you don't just ignore something the Virgin Mary tells you, if you're ever lucky enough to be visited by her.

"Like?"

He shrugs, "I can't quite remember," he lies, and thinks that Jason can probably tell. But he doesn't confront him, and Peter is only half thankful for that.

"Okay," Jason says finally. "But tell me, okay?"

"Sure," Peter says, and really its only half a lie, because when any danger's passed, and they've graduated, he knows he won't be able to stand keeping it a secret anymore.

Jason walks over to the desk in the corner, tossing a large textbook onto Peter's bed. "The Slave Trade beckons," he says, theatrically.

"Yes, master," Peter jokes with a mock-salute and notes with satisfaction the way Jason licks his lips as his eyes darken.

He smiles, and starts reading about the Abolitionist movement.


	8. Chapter 8

In the dark, Peter's eyes flash open, and he scrambles for the light-switch for the lamp on the small table between their beds. Four thirty. Only 2 hours since he'd last woken up.

The nightmares are getting unbearable.

They were performing the Queen Mab scene, and Jason, who's normally their best dancer, was just suddenly not, worse than Tanya even. And then he just collapsed in Peter's arms and it was all over.

Peter is sick of those dreams, of waking up afraid, shaking and covered in cold sweat. It had been worse over the spring break, when he'd wake up alone, doubt like a heavy stone in his gut, because he had no way of knowing whether it had really been just a dream or not. At least now when he woke up, he could see Jason lying across in the other bed.

"Hey, you alright?" Peter blinks in shock. He'd forgotten how much of a light sleeper Jason was. He gives a brief nod, but something of the truth must show on his face, because Jason only looks incredulous. "Come here," he says.

Peter moves, so tired he can barely feel the movement, and lies down, flicking off the light as Jason's arm settles protectively around him. It makes him feel safe, even though he knows nothing is anymore.

"What happened?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just a bad dream." If only.

"Pretty bad, huh?" He has no idea.

"Yeah," Peter answers, sleepily. It's like just lying there with Jason is enough to relax him. It's all an illusion, but it helps so much.

"What happened? Same as usual? You seem kind of tired recently."

"Just go to sleep," Peter says, and hears Jason sigh in the dark.

"You won't. Come one, tell me."

"We're performing and we're wearing all the costumes and stuff, and we're at the Queen Mab scene. And then, all of a sudden you just fall, like, collapse, and then you don't wake up and…"

"Shh…" Jason murmurs against his ear. "It's just a dream, yeah? I doubt I have any weird heart conditions or anything."

"I think you overdose actually." Peter says, because actually, he knows.

Jason is just silent. "Didn't think Lucas ever gave enough to OD," he says finally.

"I guess." Peter replies, though it feels terribly inadequate. He wants to say something along the lines of _don't _but he knows Jason won't know what he means, and he doesn't want to push too much. After all, Jason had already as good as agreed they could come out, stop hiding this, although half the time Peter wasn't even sure what _this _was. Jason traces light random patterns on Peter's shoulder, and doesn't answer him. Peter gulps, squeezing his eyes shut and tries to force himself to relax.

* * *

Jason stops short in his tracks when he sees her, and, cursing under his breath, ducks into the nearby hallway, silently praying she hadn't noticed him.

No such luck.

"Jason!" she calls after him, and then suddenly she's there again, pushing him into an empty classroom and shutting the door, like a bad penny doomed to show up whatever he does. In a twisted way, it reminds him of his feelings for Peter.

"You didn't mean it," she pleads, half-sobbing. "Oh, please tell me you hadn't meant it." Her eyes are darker than usual, with an abundance of eyeliner that fails to disguise the rawness of bitter tears. He says nothing. "Jason!"

"I thought you said you'd leave me alone," he replies finally, although he'd quite happily wipe that whole evening from existence. Oh, thank God he'd stopped before they went to far. Peter would never have trusted him again.

"For a girl. Jase, please, you don't mean this." It's an odd impulse, but he flinches. That's _Peter's _name for him, and only Peter's, belonging in moans between spread lips and dark hair tossed back.

"Don't call me that." It's colder than he'd intended. Outside, the hallways are filled with nameless students, loud and carefree. What would they say if they knew?

"Don't you see what he's doing?" She asks, and actually looks sorry for him. If anything, it should be him pitying her, and her unrequited crush, but at the moment, all he can feel is vague annoyance. "This isn't you. I mean, you've always been normal."

It hits too close to home, and he looks away, wondering how many hours he'd spent praying in vain, waiting for those feelings to go away. It had never worked, and eventually he gave up.

"Normal?" he questions instead, raising an eyebrow, because this is what he does when faced with something like this.

"You know," Ivy says, waving a hand vaguely. "Not," she leans forward, like it's some sort of disgrace to be saying it, even where no one is around, and finishes, barely loud enough for him to hear, "gay."

He shrugs, "I don't know if I am really." he says, because he'd fancied girls as well, Anna, an older girl who'd had singing lessons from Nadia's cello teacher, and little red-haired Freya Reynolds, who'd once gone to his golf lessons. But Peter was different, and he kind of can't see ever not wanting him.

Ivy gives him a triumphant smile, but it's a little strained around the edges, like it's a victory she's not yet sure of. "See?" she says. "Whatever he's forced you to do or manipulated you, or convinced you of, but it doesn't matter. You can get over it."

"He hasn't tried to convince me of anything!" Jason snaps, and even though it's not really true, because Peter had, over coming out, and films, and auditioning for that damn play in the first place, but it didn't count, because it had never been like Ivy was trying to tell him now; like forcing him. If anything, it was her attempting to do the manipulating.

"Oh, Jason," she murmurs, sounding quite genuinely _sorry _for him. "We'll get you through this, don't worry."

"You don't need to get me through anything!" he says, "Look, I'm sorry. But who I'm in a relationship with is really none of your business."

"It's a sin," Ivy reminds him patiently. It's the patience that gets to him really, like she _understands_. She understands nothing.

"I love him," Jason blurts out unthinkingly._ Oh, shit. _He hadn't even realised it. He was such a goddamn idiot.

Something shifts in her expression then, dark and painful, but he turns away so he won't have to face her, and goes outside.

It's cold, but it helps him think. He's going to need it, if he's going to be able to score any baskets later.

* * *

"Thanks, by the way. This morning, I mean," Peter says, not looking up, when Jason comes in from practise. He thinks it's basketball this time, because for all of Jason's talk about baseball he hasn't played it properly since they were twelve and barely knew each other.

Jason shrugs, "You haven't been sleeping."

"It was fine afterwards" It's not a defence, and they both know it.

"Well, you can always sleep with me tonight," Jason suggests.

"Really?" Peter looks up then, sees the glint in Jason's eyes, the half-smile and blushes.

"Jerk. Only you could go from nightmares to sex so quickly."

"Is that a yes?" Jason asks, amused, dropping down on the bed behind him.

Peter leans back and inhales sweat from the workout and Jason's soap, and beneath that something that's just Jason, strong and warm and addictive as sin. "You know it is," he murmurs.


	9. Chapter 9

She feels like she's stuck in an endless prison of opaque glass, hard and stable like thick metal and as stifling as grasping arms of countless boys who'd lasted at most a couple of weeks. God doesn't think she deserves a happily ever after.

Ivy's fingers skim over the flat skin of her stomach. Despite everything, she's probably lucky. Nadia certainly thinks so, if her biting comments are any indication.

She's never thought she had anything against gay people. What other people did amongst themselves was none of her business. All the same, she'd always had a clear idea of what a gay guy would be like in her mind. Effeminate, no good at sports, not at all interested in girls. Someone like Peter in extreme perhaps, but Jason had kissed her so gently, even if he had then told her he was in love with someone else. It had hurt, but at least that was understandable. But a boy? Peter? What did he have that she didn't? Besides the obvious, but Jason claimed to _love him_!

He may never have looked at her like most of the other boys did, but even so, Jason had always seemed so normal, so very _not_ gay. Ivy's fingers skim down over her flat stomach, the beginning of a plan forming in her mind.

* * *

Peter makes the long-overdue phone call to his mother, fingers clammy on the numbers as he presses too hard, mistyping till the number is almost unrecognizable. The dial tone is shrill and painful in his ears, and he'd never thought his mother took so long to answer the phone before, but it takes nearly an eternity and no time at all.

"Hello?" His mother's voice, soft and breathy with the remembered smoke of too many cigarettes, had never seemed so welcome and yet so terrifying. What if she hated him, for this, something he couldn't even control? He'd tried often enough to chase away those feelings, until his trousers were worn for reasons that didn't leave Jason boneless and moaning out Peter's name atop his bed.

"Mother, I need to talk to you." It's unexpectedly simple to say, but even so is teeth feel too big in his jaw, clashing with his tongue as if to stop him from revealing anything. He squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. He opens them. He's still really doing this. It's not some kind of twisted nightmare.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, pleased. "Oh, honey, I was just about to call you."

"There's something that you need to know. I'm just going to spit it out." Peter says, aware that he's actually holding the inevitable off, yet unable to stop himself.

"How are rehearsals going? I miss you already, yet it's only been a week." It took an embarrassingly shorter time to make Peter miss Jason, but she didn't need to know that. She didn't need to know anything, whispered the traitorous voice of a serpent, but he ignored it.

"You probably guessed it years ago," How could she not have, when all he'd wanted for his eighth birthday was one of those toy ovens intended for little girls with plastic bracelets and silky ribbons in their pigtails? "Still, it's kind of hard to say."

His mother, in her usual fashion, started her own side of the conversation. Sometimes Peter wished for parents who either cared, or just plain didn't, like Jason's, not some weird state in between. He always hated himself a little afterwards, and held Jason harder, as if that affection could make up for the lack of another. "We're all so excited about the play. I called your father, he swore he'd be there, but I'll remind him again. You know how busy he is, he forgets sometimes. I'd like to tape it, but honestly, I'm not going to turn into one of those parents."

"Sometimes it's on the tip of my tongue, but it's so hard to admit it. And then silence seems the only way."

His mother paused, and Peter could hear her shallow breathing over the phone, like his grandmother's puffs after a cigarette. "Perhaps now isn't the best time. I'm taking Nana to lunch."

"I search for answers on my own." God, how come he'd never noticed how hard it was to get a word in. At least Jason, with all his refusals, at least let him finish, always before the same, same answer. _I neither dance nor sing; lay off the crack, Peter, don't be naïve._

"She's so proud of you." She cut in again, with that parental quality of concentrating only on the little details she approved of. As far as Ivy's mother knew, her precious daughter hadn't gone much further than kissing.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm completely lost. Mom, please, don't say anything yet. Just listen to me." Even to his own ears, he sounds broken, desperate, so of course she ignored him. She'd married his father after all. His father couldn't stand weaklings (_faggots_).

"Berkeley took their wait list. When they called I swear I'd almost died. Would you really go there, I didn't even know you'd decided to apply. Where did Notre Dame go?" He'd applied there as well, because Jason had, but hadn't accepted either offer yet. He didn't know how much more of hiding who he was he could take, and at least Berkeley had a Gay-Straight Alliance, at least some sort of acceptance. But Jason had had his heart set on Notre Dame since they'd first met, and Peter had had his heart set on Jason for nearly that long too.

"Mom, please listen to me. God, I can't even get the words out. It's like they're all jumbled together inside my head. I know what I want to say, but it's like I'm trying to talk in a foreign language. I know it, but I can't seem to say it. Mom, I love you and I" can't seem to say it. It had become so easy to admit anything to Jason that he'd forgotten how difficult the world could actually be. Maybe his boyfriend (his _boyfriend_, it was amazing how right the word felt) was right, maybe Peter had started to see life through the rose-tinted glasses of some simple fairytale.

"You didn't say that you withdrew. People will be so disappointed, have you really thought this through?"

"Mom, this is important. Mom, you really need to listen. Please don't shut me out now, you really need to see."

"Peter, I'm really busy here. I need a break, whatever it is will have to wait, dear, but I promise I'll call you later." Her voice was cool, the tone he'd heard her use countless times with troublesome clients. It wasn't fair, not now, when all he wanted was for her to know who he truly was, finally notice something he'd been attempting to hide for six years.

"Please, it's really hard to say. I'm so afraid you'll turn away. I'm just afraid that if I don't tell you now, I'll be trying to muster up the courage again for so long."

"Darling, I really do need to hang up now. I'm picking Nana up, you know she can't drive herself any more, her arthritis is getting worse. We're going for lunch, I need to leave in a couple of minutes, and I have a meeting this afternoon. I'll talk to you later."

"Don't hang up!" bursts out of him suddenly, and for once there is an unexpectedly blissful silence on the line. "Just listen to me for a minute. Nana won't mind waiting for five minutes. This took such courage. I know you know what I'm saying but please, just listen."

His mother sighs over the line, and Peter can almost see her in his mind, ironed shirt beneath a soft jumper, sitting at the desk in her small, tidy office, tapping her long, painted fingers impatiently against the base of her laptop and glancing at her watch every couple of minutes. "Peter, please, I can't solve all your problems."

"Mother, you know nothing of them, and I'm not expecting you to fight delusions. Just be my mom and my friend again. Just try to understand, I didn't choose this, I couldn't help it." Even to his own ears, he sounds like he's begging at an altar of understanding, to a God who turns away and ignores him. "But I've been waiting to tell you this since I was twelve. Mom, I'm," He takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly. This is it, it has to be. He hasn't tried so hard, finally convinced Jason, to chicken out now like some primary school kid who can't bear to disappoint his parents, especially now that Nadia and Ivy both know. It's too late to do anything else, and it would be just like fucking Jason over, and not in the pleasant way at that. "Mom, I'm gay." He finishes, and is surprised that in the end his voice doesn't even waver, and even to himself he sounds almost eerily calm, like Jesus facing crucifixion.

There is a painfully loud silence on the other end of the line, and he can hear the clock in the office ticking down a countdown to his damnation.

"Peter." His mother finally says, voice choked up like she's trying her hardest not to cry but not quite succeeding. "You're still so young, you can't possibly know what you want yet."

"You were younger when you and dad started dating." Peter says, not bothering to point out how that had ended up, because it had all been his fault, and with two short words had destroyed so many happy years of marriage. Easy-Bake Oven. _I'm Gay_. What was the difference, really?

His mother is silent for several agonizing moments. "I'll call you back," she says finally, but it feels like a million miles away and its clear how much she doesn't really want to.

He barely puts his phone down, when the tears come gushing out like an unbidden flood, hot and salty against his cheeks, and he feels rather than hears Jason's footsteps behind him as strong arms wrap around him.

"Didn't go well?" Jason asks, warm breath ghosting against Peter's ear, the pad of his thumb brushing away Peter's tears, and despite everything Peter can't suppress a slight shiver. He turns in Jason's arms, and lets his head flop down against one shoulder. Neither of them say anything.

"I think it just needs time. She's not like my dad, so I think it was just the shock."

"Or maybe she's fine with it as long as it's not you," Jason mutters.

"You're really not helping." Peter points out, rolling his eyes and attempting to hide his slight smile against Jason's sleeve.

"Sorry," he says, sounding sincere. "At least you know she's trying." Jason adds, and they smile uneasily at each other, knowing that so many people out there wouldn't, like Ivy, too in love with her idea of Jason to try to understand him.


	10. Chapter 10

I swear I don't actually hate Ivy. *shifty look*. No, really.

* * *

He's delivering an unprepared speech to a silent, invisible audience, hidden away in the shadows of their rehearsal room. It's scattered all over his notebook anyway, crossed out lines re-written because it all sounds like he's trying too hard, or like he's avoiding life, or a million other things that would make him look a fool. He keeps considering giving up, taking the easy way out and just letting Matt do it, but he reckons he's enough of a disappointment to his parents anyway, or will be once they find out. Maybe this is what Nadia feels like after every conversation with their mother.

The opening is the worst, because if he messes that up, it won't matter what else he says, just like it won't matter what he does, who he is, once his parents find out about Peter.

"I need to talk to you," Ivy says, striding in like a deadly wolf springing out of its hiding place, and Jason suppresses a groan, because lately it feels like his entire life is an endless loop of not wanting to talk to Ivy and being forced to. Everyone would be happier if she just talked to Matt instead.

"Look, Ivy, nothing's changed. I'll say it just one more time: I'm sorry I don't feel the same, but whatever we had for that moment, it's gone. Leave things at that and just move on. Preferably to Matt because then he wouldn't mope around so much, but it's your life." Stop bothering me is what he really means, but their parents had their nanny raise him to be polite.

Ivy pulls at his arm, and Jason lets himself be turned around. Her fingers feel clammy against his bare skin, painted fingernails digging in as if the prospect of blood is an offering.

"We weren't safe that night." she says quietly, eyes darting around the empty room as if she's searching for something, "I'm pregnant." _What the hell?_

For a minute Jason just stands there in shock, then bursts out laughing. "Good joke," he says, even though it isn't. "I appreciate the distraction, but I really do need to finish this tonight. So if you don't mind," he turns back to his notes and squints. It would be easier to just practice with Peter.

Ivy scowls, lingering shadows making her look like she has a monobrow. "This isn't something to joke about, Jason."

"We didn't even have sex, Ivy." Is that an e or an o?

"So now you're denying everything?" she asks, face open and contorted like she's about to cry. "You know, I never took you for such a coward." Seriously, how is this his life?

"He's already in love with a boy," says someone from the shadows, stepping out into a scene Jason wants no part in; and it's Matt, of course it's Matt, it always is, and Jason hadn't even seen him come in, but he's the last person he wants to see, except his parents and Zack, because no matter what Matt always ends up with both feet planted firmly on Ivy's side.

Peter and Nadia walk in then, talking quietly, his sister smiling like he hadn't seen her do for so long, and he lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, because when they're there, his two favourite people, it always seems alright.

"Are we late?" Peter looks around frowning, because for all that he could be awfully naïve at times, he could usually read people fairly well. "What's going on?"

"Ivy's pregnant and your boyfriend's the dad," Matt hisses out, the sound sharp and bitter in the dark room. "So what does that make you?" Jason feels a sharp pain in his arm, looks down at Nadia to find her mouthing something he can't hear.

"She's what?" Peter spits out, face ashen, looking between them, Matt and Ivy and him, eyes flickering like damaged lightbulbs before finally settling on Jason again, the question clear in his eyes.

Jason just shakes his head pathetically, not sure who he's replying to, as long as they both believe him. It's not enough, but his throat aches, and he's horribly afraid that if he opens it, all the words would just come gushing out in an endless stream; _I love you _and_ I hate you _and_ I wish I could change this _and_ sometimes I want to claw my bloody heart out _and_ I just want this to end _and_ if you're a sinner does it really matter if you die_?

"Get the fuck out of here, Matt," he says, too tired to be effective. Peter is avoiding his eyes, staring fixedly at the flimsy, worn carpet like it holds all of God's secrets and hides all of Jason's mistakes.

Matt shrugs, diligently at Ivy's side as always, for once not shaken off. "Look, I'm not here to judge, just keep everyone on the same page. I don't give a damn about whatever you and Peter have, but you should at least have had the decency not to cheat on him with Ivy and let her think you actually liked her."

"I kissed her," Jason says, the words feeling like an admission of guilt in his mouth, too honest and raw to feel comfortable, and he sees Peter flinch in the corner of his eye. "That's it. I didn't sleep with her. I swear." He looks around, but Peter isn't there anymore, and for a minute he feels like he's gone blind, because it seems like Peter's always been there, even when Jason didn't want him to be, but maybe this is what it feels like when your life falls apart.

"So now I'm the second Virgin Mary!" Ivy mocks, looking through dark mascara-ed eyelashes with disturbingly triumphant eyes.

"No one would ever call you a virgin." Nadia retorts, then adds, calmer "If my brother says he didn't sleep with you then I believe him. God knows how many times you've lied."

"That's not fair. I know you don't like each other, but he's hardly a saint." Matt defends.

Jason feels movement by his side, that kind of static electricity he always feels near Peter, and can't hide how relieved he feels, especially when Peter says "He's not a liar either," like its so obvious he can't believe he has to say it at all, and there's something in the firm set of his face that says he'll defend Jason till the end. Even more than Nadia's defense, that's what reassures Jason, who reaches out to grasp Peter's hand in his.

Ivy stares at their joint hands, and stays silent. Nadia shoots him a proud smile before asking, "How are you even involved in this?"

"I'm supporting her, which is hell of a lot more than you're doing. Would you like someone to just screw you around like that?" says Matt,

"In case you haven't noticed, you're the only one who believes her." Nadia points out, and for a second Jason just wants to laugh madly, because it feels like his life is falling apart and his sister is still being coolly logical.

"And you're the only one who believes him." Matt answers, brushing his fringe from his eyes in a way that's meant to be nonchalant.

"I do," Peter says, and his voice shakes on the second syllable, but he squeezes Jason's hand anyway, hard enough for the pressure to hurt.

Matt just rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because you want to. How can you seriously believe Ivy would lie about something like this? How many times did Jason lie about the two of you? _Best friends_." He spits the two words out like a curse, damning them all to Hell.

"He didn't say anything about it," Nadia counters.

"Lie of omission." Matt says, and it's moments like these that Jason remembers that Matt wants to become a lawyer.

"My mother would love you," says Nadia with an undertone of jaded wistfulness in her voice, and Matt looks sheepishly proud in a way that makes Jason at once want to hate him and run away with Peter, because he feels like he's facing a reflection which doesn't understand nor empathize.

"Bet she'd prefer to have him as a child than you," Ivy interrupts suddenly, and Jason has to remind himself that if he hit her she'd cry rape or assault, and it really wouldn't help him at all, but it's still hard, because that's his sister, and she's being so brilliant about all of this.

"Leave her alone," he says instead, his voice sounding rusty from choked-down tears, and he feels like falling apart, following the pattern of his life.

He'd never thought God could hate one person so much.

"What, and if you had your way I'd never talk to you again?" Ivy asks, sounding almost injured, and even though he knows it must be an act, he still nearly steps back in shock. Matt lays one hand on Ivy's shoulder reassuringly.

Peter would just pity Matt for being taken in so easily. Peter's always been nicer than Jason.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asks, voice echoing around the room. The others are silent.

"Just because I'm telling the truth, you mean?" Ivy asks, and God, how had he not known how good of a liar she was earlier, how malicious. He thinks of all the times he'd defended her to Nadia in her absence and feels sick, although absurdly grateful that he isn't hearing any I-told-you-so's. He's not sure he could stand it, at the moment. Already he feels like collapsing and never getting up again.

"You're not," Jason chokes out. "You can't be."

Her gaze is contemptuous, the smirk grotesque like a deformed gargoyle on an elegant door. "You don't even know what you're saying anymore, do you?"

"Just get out of here!" Nadia shouts at her, "Or I swear-"

"Fine," Ivy shrugs, graceful like a cat and sweeps out. Matt just stands there, looking at them all like they're puzzles he can't fit together, before turning to follow her.

"_Shit_," Jason breathes out, knees colliding with the hard floor with a sharp _clang _and a pain that shoots up his thighs. He hears Peter crouch down beside him and pull him close. It feels like they're trying too hard.

"We should probably go to your room," Nadia says, uncharacteristically quiet. "We're not going to get any practice done."


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry, I had massive writer's block with this part. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited or alerted.

* * *

They sit on Jason's bed, Nadia perched precariously on the edge as if half considering fleeing, Peter and Jason against the headboard Jason had smacked his head into once, leaning against each other like doing too much would break them apart. They've grown too used to hiding away on their own for this to feel comfortable, but it's warm and Nadia _knows._

Peter still has to remind himself of that every so often.

None of them say anything. Peter looks down at his hands, nails bitten to the quick and colourful gel bracelet on his left hand, like a sort of friendship bracelet Jason had brought for him from some money-raising event his mother had funded once.

"I didn't sleep with her," Jason says again, and Peter feels slightly embarrassed at the fresh wave of sheer relief he gets every time Jason says it, though the story does not change in the telling.

"I know," he says softly, but knowing and truly believing something are two very different things.

"Ivy's a bitch," Nadia says sullenly, like many times before.

Jason laughs, breathy and a touch desperate; a madman's laugh. "Yeah, she is."

Nadia grins suddenly, slightly sardonic and says, "I'd say I told you so, but that's mean even for me." She pauses, "I don't know what to tell you, but definitely rule out calling Dad."

Jason shakes his head, the movement making him look uncharacteristically vulnerable, "No." he agrees, then "Is there any way we can prove she's lying before she would start to show?"

"But she might," Peter says, because despite thinking herself in love with Jason, which she can't be, because people in love don't try to hurt the other person, Ivy's slept with more boys than times they've argued about coming out.

"Padding you mean?" Nadia shrugs, "Maybe, but eventually there would be no baby."

"No, she might really be pregnant," Peter says, and doesn't think about how it sounds until Jason's eyes go dull, and Nadia starts picking at loose threads on the sleeve of her jumper.

"You believe…" Jason murmurs, and Peter snaps out a hasty "She's hardly a virgin," because he really doesn't want to hear it, especially since he's not sure he fully believes Jason about anything anymore, but at least he's trying.

They're all trying, but Peter feels like he's been trying forever, but everything he tries for untangles like an errant piece of string, and he's just so_ tired_ of it.

"She's a slut." Nadia shrugs, considering "No, it makes sense. It could easily be someone else's."

"Can you do DNA checks on unborn babies?" Jason asks, leaning forward slightly, disturbingly eager, and Peter winces, imagining needles piercing multiple layers of flesh. It hurt enough with just one skin, without something reaching inside you and inside you again.

"I don't think so," Nadia says quietly. "It'll have to be a really long needle, and they might end up accidentally killing it." _It_, Peter notes, not really a person but merely an inconvenience. She continues, "Pierce its heart or whatever."

"Probably not then," Jason sighs, running a hand through his hair, "It would be easier, though."

"Ever heard that life wasn't easy?" Nadia says, raising an eyebrow, and just for minute, it all seems normal. "Guys, there isn't anything we can do, except ignore her. It's not like she can prove it." It's addressed to both of them, but she's only looking at Jason, like Peter is something different now that she knows the truth, like talking to both of them at once, as a _couple, _is too much acknowledgement than she's ready for. It hurts, because if Peter was a girl, no one would ever care.

Nadia stands up, "I'm hungry; are you coming?"

Yes, Peter thinks, but then Jason says no, so they don't. It wouldn't be fair to leave him alone after something like this.

_He could_, Peter thinks, swiftly followed by a vehement _no, no._

Nadia says goodbye after that and leaves, and they sit there in silence for a while, until Jason looks over, and thanks him quietly.

"It's fine." Says Peter curtly.

"No, I" Jason pauses, considering "Seriously, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Ivy is probably the worst."

And Peter can't help it; he practically feels his smile stretch across his face, and when he blinks he finds to his surprise, that his eyes are wet. "You too," he chokes out, and then doesn't say anything more, pulling Jason to him, his hands reaching up to tangle in Jason's hair. Unusually, they bump noses; Peter's vision so blurry he can barely see, and he can't even feel Jason maneuver him back against the bed, focusing instead on Jason's hands, one gripping Peter's shoulder tight, the other curled loosely around his hip.

He wonders when this all got so complicated. They used to just be happy in this room, no matter what went on outside of it.

* * *

"Zack and Lucas, Connor and Sophie, Tanya and Nadia," _Peter and Jason, Jason and Peter, oh, God, please_, Peter thinks, fingering the small crucifix on a chain around his neck.

Of course Dr Wathey would give them all a project during the last few weeks of their time at St. Cecilia's, like she was worried she hadn't had time to torture them enough during the past few years. She continued blithely, "Diane and Ivy, Hannah and Alex, Peter and," _Jason, _"Matt." Peter sighs, and sees Jason give him a pitying look out of the corner of his eye, even as Matt turns around, lips drawn tight across a pale face. There are shadows under his eyes, like he hasn't slept all night. Peter knows all too well how that feels, but he can't bring himself to feel sorry for Matt, not now.

When Dr Wathey finishes with the pairs, Matt sits himself hesitantly on the chair next to Peter. "Look, can we just ignore," he makes an odd gesture with his hand, as if batting off a particularly vicious fly, "whatever is happening?"

"How can you believe her?" Peter asks.

"How can you not?" Matt replies, and maybe for him, it is still that simple.

It used to be that simple for Peter too, at least when it came to Jason. It seems like a very long time ago.

"I love him," he says instead, because Matt already knows, and soon everyone else will too.

He can kind of understand how Jason feels about this now. Coming out seems much easier as an abstract, unobtainable concept.

"I love her too," Matt says softly.

"She doesn't love you back," he replies, because being nice about it would take too much effort.

"It doesn't matter," says Matt. "For once she actually wants me around, and I'm willing to take whatever I can get," he pauses. "Like you do with Jason."

"That's different," Peter objects. "He loves me back," because that, at least, is simple.

"Does he really?" Matt asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because to be honest, most of the time I doubt he loves anyone. Except his precious reputation."

"What, the one you try so hard to destroy?"

"I hate liars" says Matt.

"And yet, Ivy."

"You can't prove she's lying," he snaps.

"You can't prove Jason is either," Peter replies. "Look, you don't know him like I do, alright?"

"Thank god for that," mutters Matt, who has apparently decided his eyebrows-raising muscles haven't gotten enough exercise today.

"Peter, Matt, is your conversation more interesting than my lesson?" Dr Wathey calls out from the front. _Yes,_ Peter thinks. "Kindly get back to work."

"We're just deciding who's doing what." Matt replies, as Dr Wathey goes back to whatever she did on her laptop all lesson.

He flicks through a booklet for a minute, before saying "How about I do task one and four and you do two and three?"

"One and three," says Peter, who doesn't understand the differences between various river deltas, and frankly doesn't really care.

"Fine," says Matt curtly and turns away. Peter opens the atlas and tries to concentrate on labeling the area around the confluence in Manaus, even as he can feel Jason's gaze scorching the back of his head from where he's sitting with Lily Stretch.

_Rio Negro_, he writes. His writing comes out surprisingly smooth, yet his hands won't stop shaking.


	12. Chapter 12

I think it's become very obvious by now how sporadic my updates are, and I'm honestly sorry about it, especially since I know all too well how annoying it is from the other side. I have been lately distracted by the Yuletide challenge and a Big Bang in another fandom, but now have more time to concentrate on this, so I very much hope to write more sooner rather than later.

To the people still reading this, if there are any and you have not all given up on this ages ago, I am extremely sorry, and I hope you enjoy this.

* * *

He's hardly in a position to criticize Peter's romantic choices, or expect him to have any control over them, but even so, Matt can't quite believe him. Or rather, the problem does not come with the prospect of trusting Peter (and Jason, reminds a horrible little voice at the back of his head), but rather of mistrusting Ivy.

He is painfully aware, of course, that Ivy is neither perfect nor perpetually truthful, far too used to her brushings off at parties, of constantly promised laters just before she disappeared for the night in another boy's arms. But there was a difference, surely, between saving Matt's heart through kindly-meant rejections, and trying to ruin Jason's life.

Not that Matt can muster much sympathy for him, because what does Jason McConnell _not _have that Matt's ever wanted; but he and Peter have always been the outsiders, never quite in tune with the crowd, and there's still some solidarity in that.

There is nothing, however, that could make the journey to Ivy's room any easier, despite how relieved she'd been at his presence last time. So he drags his feet there, simultaneously wishing to be both nearer and further, his heart practically in his throat, its thud annoyingly loud in his ears.

He takes a deep breath, several, and leans against the wall opposite the entrance, only straightening when a girl passing by gives him an odd look. Then he pulls himself up and forces himself to walk over to Ivy's door before he can chicken out again, and knocks firmly, already regretting it.

He just hopes Nadia won't be the one there. He used to like her, because she made him laugh and he could relax around her in a way he could never trust himself to around Ivy, but she's Jason's sister, and talking to Peter had been awkward enough.

The door opens to reveal Ivy, her hair loose and shirt half-unbuttoned. She brushes the hair out of her eyes and blinks blankly at him.

"Hi?" Matt ventures, and she steps aside to let him in, pushing the door shut practically the minute he's over the doorstep.

"Sit down," she says. "I'm getting changed."

"Wouldn't you rather I came back later?" he asks. "I mean – " He looks down, flushing, to stop staring at the lace on her bra, very light against her skin.

Ivy just frowns at him for a minute, before bursting out laughing. "It's just like wearing a bikini. You've been to a swimming pool before, surely."

Matt had, but it had never been a girl like Ivy, never someone he'd liked for so long, and even _wanked_ to, for God's sake.

She does not let him reply, simply turns her back and steps to the wardrobe. He can see her arms move as she unbuttons her shirt, and then one smooth shoulder is gradually revealed. She has freckles there, tiny on her shoulder blades. Her bra is creamy, the fastenings less than opaque. She rummages through her wardrobe, throwing some items behind her as if forgetting his presence. Matt ducks when a dark sheer shirt flies towards him, and hears it hit the radiator behind him with a dull clang.

When he looks up again, Ivy has pulled on a tight blue blouse and her skirt is halfway down her legs. Matt looks away, cheeks burning.

Most of the guys would wolf-whistle. Maybe that's what Ivy's expecting, but Matt has never been able to even manage a normal whistle. Besides, he would hate for Ivy to think he was _that_ kind of guy.

He feels rather than sees her sit down on the bed; St Cecilia's may be rather expensive but their beds are small and lumpy, and he can feel the mattress jump as Ivy sinks down on it.

"Hi," she says, and smiles. Her lipstick is a shade darker than the nuns would approve of, and her lips always seem fuller in person than in his mind.

"Peter's trying to convince me to switch sides," Matt stammers out, and hates himself for it, for running to her and just blurting everything out, because God, that wasn't even what he had wanted to say. He had meant to start off calmly, tell her she looked beautiful and ask about her day, though the first seemed a bit sleazy in light of the circumstances.

"Oh?" she says calmly. Her face barely moves, but somehow Matt can't rid himself of the impression that she's really raising her eyebrows at him. Playing him, to see how to play her game in return, he thinks for a minute, then catches himself because of course Ivy would never do that.

"I told him I believe you," he says.

Ivy just looks at him carefully, considering, and doesn't reply.

"I mean, I really don't think you'd lie about something like that. Or anything at all, really."

Ivy's gaze drops low, and Matt has the bizarre urge to cover himself up, though of course there's no chance she's actually looking at him like that. "I did the test again," she says quietly, reaching out for the duvet. She drags it up to cover her feet, and rests her hand on the edge, hand very light in contrast with the bright swirls of the material. The polish is starting to flake off her nails, leaving accidental patterns on the edges. "I felt like I had to prove to myself that it was real, that I wasn't going crazy."

Matt reaches out and lays his hand carefully on hers, squeezing lightly. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with you."

Ivy looks down at their joined hands, and bites her lip. "It came out negative this time."

Matt blinks. "So that means?"

She sighs heavily, and pulls away from him. "It means there's no pregnancy, Matt! It was a false alarm! And now everybody hates me."

"That's not true!" he protests. "I don't. I couldn't."

"Everyone else does," she snaps. "And if you _couldn't_, then you don't count."

Her hand is bunched tight around the duvet now, nails digging in. He doesn't quite dare reach out for her again.

Instead, he says the one thing which seems obvious. "Just tell them that. It's not as if – "

"As if I _couldn't_ get pregnant, just because I like sex?" Ivy interrupts him, delicate mouth twisted into a snarl. "You know, I used to think you were different, that you actually liked me for who I am rather than what I look like, that maybe you actually understood that I'm not just easy. That sleeping around doesn't define me, doesn't make me who I am. But you're just like everyone else, aren't you?"

"That's not what I meant!" Matt tries to protest, but she just ignores him.

"You don't understand how judgemental people are. The only thing they've ever said about you is that you're attracted to the wrong girl, and things like that pass. It'll never be a label you're stuck with. Years from now, if we have any high school reunions, no one will care, and if they remember it'll be just an idle comment. But they'll always think of me as the whore, whether the one who tried to ruin their lives or the one so slutty and careless it was surely divine intervention she didn't actually get pregnant. That's what they'll all say, and barely behind my back at that!"

"And yet you're so judgemental about them being gay," he says, trying not to shout back at her so she'll understand.

She laughs mockingly, and waves her free hand flippantly. "Oh, I don't care about Peter," she says, and tilts her head to the side. "But Jason slept with me, and now he's trying to cover it up. It's just some stupid game to him, and I'm so sick of it."

Matt just looks at her, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, he ventures, "do you want me to tell them, then?"

Ivy sighes, and takes a deep breath, "You have no idea what I'm going through!"

"So that's a no?"

"Look, I don't want to have anything to do with this. Whatever I'll say they'll make me the devil in all this."

They might be right to do so, so Matt would never be able to say so. "I just think we should keep everyone on the same page. It would take so much stress off everyone, especially you. It's just an innocent mistake, they have to realise that."

"You can't really be that naïve, can you?" Ivy asks, but it lacks the previous bite. She wipes her eyes with her own palm, and looks at him.

He finds himself looking back, because she's never been anything except the brightest thing in the room, the candlelight to his moth.

"You can tell them," she says, "but only after graduation. I don't want the stares."

_They'll stare anyway, _he thinks, but doesn't say it. "Okay."


End file.
